Shadow of the Past Read online

  I knew from village gossip that she already had a small army of women putting the house in order, and every spare man clearing undergrowth in her woodlands.

  ‘You are clearly a lady after my own heart,’ I said, ‘and after the heart of the village doctor and his wife – the Hansards of Langley Park. No one could be better placed to advise you.’

  ‘Yourself apart, Parson Campion,’ she corrected me. ‘Of course I recall Dr Hansard – an excellent doctor and skilled accoucheur, by all accounts. But a Mrs Hansard…?’

  ‘A good, kind and charming lady,’ I said. Should I reveal Mrs Hansard’s past? It was not my story to tell, after all.

  ‘Ah!’ She raised a finger as if to indulge in gossip. ‘Is she the housekeeper who they tell me inveigled the good man into a disastrous marriage?’

  ‘I cannot think who told you that, ma’am,’ I responded firmly. ‘A housekeeper Mrs Hansard may have been, but she could never have been anything other than a lady.’ I hoped and prayed that Dr Hansard had been right in his judgement, and that her ladyship would not disdain Mrs Hansard’s acquaintance. Herself the daughter of an earl, her ladyship was, after all, mistress of a huge fortune of which Moreton Hall was but a small part. The Hall and the surrounding estate, along with extensive lands in the north and the West Country, had been in her late husband’s family’s hands since the days of the Conqueror.

  But Edmund had not been mistaken in his estimation of her ladyship’s character.

  ‘When they pay their morning call,’ she declared, ‘I will consult them both. Unless – Mr Campion, you can tell me – would she, having face to lose, be offended if I ignored the usual formalities and invited them to sup with me directly?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Good day to you. You must be Parson Campion.’ A stoutish man in his later thirties or early forties reined in his horse alongside mine. Despite the driving rain he doffed his hat, revealing pomaded mustard-coloured hair. The cut was unfashionable. For the colour to run from his locks down his forehead, revealing an unimpressive mouse, would be even more démodé, so he swiftly replaced his headgear.

  I nodded, removing my hat too, with fewer worries about the consequences. ‘And you, sir, must be Sir Marcus Bramhall.’

  Neither was as prescient as it might seem. My bands, of course, and the rest of my attire marked me down for a man of the cloth. As for my interlocutor, Lady Chase had told me that her late husband’s nephew had announced a visit. She had said little more. Though I was proud to consider that we were friends, she was as discreet and tactful as anyone in her position ought to be, and I knew she would prefer me to make any judgements of character for myself.

  Bramhall had also brought with him, it was disapprovingly rumoured in the village, all his family and baggage large enough to suggest a protracted visit.

  The man beside me was certainly not to the country born. He might be wearing sporting clothes, but they were the sort a London tailor would conceive, and not, I regret, the very best London tailor, who would know exactly what the country demanded. No one could accuse Bramhall of being a dandy, or, at the opposite extreme, affecting the Corinthian in his dress; indeed, there was something a little too careful about him.

  He nodded, but said nothing. Believing that he was my social superior, Sir Marcus should have taken the lead in any conversation, but it seemed that he was unequal to the elementary task. The task, then, fell to me.

  ‘Are you making a long stay at Moreton Hall, sir?’

  A direct question like that, a mere social counter played times without number, does not usually elicit a response I might only describe as shifty.

  ‘Indeed, one hopes – but of course one never knows. But, yes, as long as her ladyship has need – unless she finds us—’ Such conversational ineptitude, not unexpected in a lad straight from his tutor’s care and lacking town bronze, came ill from a man in his prime.

  I tried again. ‘I trust you find her ladyship well?’

  He need not know that only the day before his arrival I had spent two hours in discussion with what she was pleased to call her little committee – the Hansards and myself, in other words – on the matter of emergency housing. The local cottages were literally melting away under the incessant rain’s assault on the mud bricks that constituted their walls. Every day our fears grew that the streams would break their bounds and sweep away humans and animals alike.

  My horse fidgeted. Titus had never liked the rain, and today was yet another when the skies did not clear even for an hour.

  ‘Still harking after that son of hers. You should tell her, Parson, to resign herself to the truth – to the Will of God.’

  I bowed, having no such intention.

  ‘Rattling round in that great house there. No way for a woman to live. Not even some snivelling old woman to lend her countenance. She must have some aged relative who would fit the bill.’

  If I too had wondered why she had not availed herself of the company of a respectable female companion, I did not admit it to Sir Marcus. A non-committal cough was all I offered.

  ‘Needs a bit of company. That’s what I told her.’

  Sir Marcus, the son of his lordship’s elder sister, who had married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family, was thus the heir presumptive. His visit might have been to cheer a lonely widow, but human nature being what it is, it might equally to have been to stake a claim in a house he reasonably believed to be his.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ I must not be too quelling, since an important question was already on my lips. ‘May I hope that you will accompany her to Divine Service next Sunday?’

  He hunched further into his coat. ‘Aye, they told me you were something of a Wesleyan, taking your duties uncommon seriously.’ He added, ‘I was trying to persuade her ladyship to refit the family chapel. It’s fallen into sad neglect, sir. When did it last see a coat of paint?’

  ‘Her ladyship has been pleased to sit alongside her villagers, in the church where Lord Chase’s ancestors are buried. And yours, of course,’ I corrected myself swiftly. ‘Do you care to see their monuments? There are two particularly fine tombs, and an excellent brass.’

  He smiled briefly, displaying teeth better than most. ‘I will bring my whole family to see them. My sister, Lady Dorothea, is of a particularly historical bent, seeing romance in every fallen stone. And you, pray, Mr Campion, must share our mutton with us – why not this very night?’

  ‘I have not paid so much as a morning visit to Lady Bramhall—’ I broke off to nod and smile at young Tom Fletcher, driving some of his uncle’s heavy-fleeced sheep with the aid of Nip, a dog that did its best to live up to its appellation. ‘I will not answer for the consequences, Tom, if you let your dog near Titus here,’ I called.

  Tom called him closer to heel. Tugging his dripping forelock, he said, consciously polite, ‘Good day, Parson Campion.’ Casting an inquisitive glance at Sir Marcus, he added hopefully, ‘Is there any more wood to chop?’

  ‘Tom, make your bow to Sir Marcus. That’s better. There’s plenty of wood ready for you – but only when you’ve learnt the psalm I set you, young man. As if,’ I added, sotto voce, to Sir Marcus, ‘he were interested in anything other than the sweetmeats my housekeeper will find. But I keep him to his books, sir, and one day he will thank me for it.’

  Sir Marcus had watched the exchange with ill-concealed boredom, at last flipping the youngster a coin. So his affable reply took me by surprise. ‘We will not stand on ceremony – not in the country. You will know that the Dowager Duchess keeps country hours. My dear wife is slowly prevailing on her to dine at a more fashionable time, but she is most reluctant to change. However, we have compromised on five-thirty, for the time being, that is. I will expect you then.’

  ‘I would be delighted to accept. Thank you, Sir Marcus.’ I trust my social smile covered my unease at his alluding already to her ladyship as the dowager. I hoped he did not do it within her earshot.

  Our horses parted company with
no backward glance. Titus was no doubt thinking of the vicarage stable and shelter from the drenching rain, and his, one of the oldest and most staid hacks from her ladyship’s stable, a prompt return to its domain. His was the more fortunate – I had a deathbed to attend before we could return to the vicarage.

  The cottage was little more than a hut: I have seen pigs better housed. Predictably, another was there before me, still in his great coat as the damp seeped relentlessly through the rotting thatch – my dear friend, Edmund. The little fire, recently lit, gave hardly more warmth than a candle, and certainly not enough to dry the damp bedewing the walls.

  ‘Her ladyship sent coal and beef-tea,’ he said, drawing me into a corner. ‘But poor Mrs Kemp’s daughter “didn’t like to waste the coal”,’ he said in a mincing parody of the girl’s thick accent, ‘though goodness knows her ladyship would have sent thrice as much had she known the need! But Polly never did have much in the way of sense. Goodness knows how she’ll manage without the old lady’s guidance.’

  I hid a smile. Dr Hansard might have carried nearly as many years as Mrs Kemp, but he never referred to himself as old, nor permitted anyone else to do so. Indeed, his marriage had brought a new spring to his step. No one would have taken him for a man who would not see fifty again.

  ‘My dear friend, have you done all you can do for Mrs Kemp’s body?’ I asked gently.

  ‘Indeed I have.’ He nodded at the cadaverous face, the eyes already closing. Together we listened to the painfully drawn breaths, each seeming to be her last until another rasp surprised us.

  ‘In that case, Edmund, while I see what I can do for her soul, you should go home and find some dry clothes, lest you too take an inflammation of the lung,’ I told him, gently mocking as I usurped his medical privilege.

  Chilled to the bone and saddened by the loss of a regular and devout communicant, I would have preferred to spend the rest of the day in my own study, with my books for company. I had after all a paper to prepare for no less a body than the Royal Society. Last year they had been kind enough to approve my study of the nesting habits of the genus Sylviidae, and had suggested that I might care to follow it up with a similar study of another bird. Should it be genus Strigidae? Only last night I had seen a long-eared owl, rarer in this part of the world than its larger tawny cousin, its ears making two exclamation marks above the surprised eyes.

  Yes. Owls would prove a rewarding subject. I reached for my books.

  Enough of this. I must make up for any lapse in manners Sir Marcus might have detected, and, of course, meet the other newcomers. Any meetings with her ladyship were always pleasurable, whatever the circumstances. So I duly presented myself at Moreton Hall, punctual to the minute.

  According to Edmund, the entrance hall had been Lord Chase’s pride and joy. It was a double cube, with painted and gilded ceilings and magnificent plaster fireplaces either side of a staircase which bifurcated halfway up to very grand effect. Family portraits from the school of Van Dyke to works by the very hand of Madame le Brun graced the walls. Greek and Roman statues occupied specially designed niches.

  To my amazement, not only were both fires lit, but Sir Marcus – and what I presumed was his family – were huddled about the one on the right, their breath making little puffs of steam when anyone spoke. In none of my previous engagements at the Court, apart from a small reception for the gentry of the county, had such formality prevailed: guests always being received upstairs in the drawing room, whether the gathering was large or small. What could be the reason for such a departure from comfortable ways? I looked for Lady Chase, anxious to make my bow to her first, of course, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  My host, however, was very much in evidence, wearing, to my intense embarrassment, the knee-breeches and silk stockings of fashionable evening apparel.

  He waved aside my swift apology for appearing in boots, clicking his fingers quite superfluously for a footman to relieve me of my dripping greatcoat and hat.

  ‘Welcome, my dear Mr Campion! It hasn’t eased yet? No? We shall have to build an ark, shall we not? Let me introduce you to my wife, Lady Bramhall.’

  I bowed low, taking in an anxious lady not yet forty, in lavender mourning which did not suit her colouring. She slid her eyes to Sir Marcus before moving her lips in something of a greeting.

  ‘And my sister, Lady Dorothea.’

  There was no agonising shyness about this creature, who would have been no more than one or two and twenty. She had indeed defied fashion so far as to wear a thick pelisse over her dark grey silk dress, and I for one would have applauded had she seen fit to swathe herself in muff, bonnet and furs, provided she still allowed her charming countenance to appear. For charming was indeed the word. Her face was heart-shaped, the sort of beauty one often associates with the more vacuous female. But hers was enlivened by a pair of speaking blue eyes, and a firm, even amused, pair of lips. Her brother’s faux-yellow hair appeared on her head as magnificent corn-gold, the dazzling curls almost having a life of their own.

  I thanked years of training for what I hoped was a passable bow, and a polite greeting – which was cut cruelly short.

  Sir Marcus was speaking again. ‘These are my sons, Adam and Charles—’ he paused while the two pasty-faced lads, perhaps seventeen and fifteen, made their bows ‘—and my daughters Honoria and Georgiana.’

  The two schoolroom misses curtsied. Both in satin, they were overdressed for such an informal occasion, but underdressed for the temperature. Mumbling incomprehensibly, they resumed their places beside a hunted-looking young woman, presumably their governess, sitting at the furthest point from the fire, which only intermittently lit her rigidly braided black hair. Even though Sir Marcus had not deigned to introduce us, I had opened my mouth to greet her, and would indeed have sat beside her.

  ‘Nonsense, man, nonsense! Come nearer the fire!’

  In a more subtle man than I deemed Sir Marcus to be, the invitation could have been embarrassing, since he indicated a place beside Lady Dorothea. I sat, trying not to shiver. I always did my best not to indulge in personal vanity, but no one wished to appear in a positive quake before a young lady of such elegance and beauty. Before we could exchange more than a formal smile, and no doubt embark on a disquisition on the inclement weather, Lambert, the butler, summoned us to dine. I might regret the haste with which it was done, but I could not regret the move to a warmer apartment. I could rely on Lady Chase to keep a properly heated dining parlour. But where was her ladyship? To ask our self-appointed host where the real hostess was would surely be a solecism. So as Lambert bowed us up the double staircase, which was guarded on either side by a dithering footman, I spoke to him.

  His reply disconcerted me.

  ‘Her ladyship indisposed?’ I exclaimed. How could I have been invited to dine in such a circumstance?

  ‘Her ladyship is not so indisposed that she cannot ask you to take tea with her in her private sitting room after dinner, sir.’ There was a slight but unmistakable emphasis on the word. Since the whole conversation was far from the social norm, neither of us was inclined to pursue it.

  Dinner was the strangest affair, served, amazingly, not in the by now familiar dining parlour but in the grand saloon. Despite the presence of the schoolroom party, it seemed the event was formal enough to discourage conversation with anyone but one’s immediate neighbour. Indeed, a monstrous gilt epergne I knew had been relegated to the attic had reappeared, dominating the centre of the table. I was partnered with Lady Bramhall, with whom it was possible to exchange commonplaces for the duration of the meal without uttering or hearing one memorable phrase. Each time she spoke, she half covered her mouth. Having sunk into deepest mourning, she might never resurface.

  I could hear Lady Dorothea’s laughter but could not without causing offence have asked the cause or joined in. Sir Marcus, having vigorously carved a chine of mutton and a venison pasty, considered his duty as a host done until the second course appeared, when he seem
ed quite offended that I could no more than taste the chicken fricassee or the sweetbread tartlets. It always pained my conscience to over indulge myself when my dear flock did barely more than exist, food and dry fuel alike being so scarce.

  But Lady Bramhall had initiated a subject for discussion! I agreed that the fire was giving plenty of heat; she, poor creature, wondered aloud about the extravagance of so many candles.

  ‘But Sir Marcus is so anxious that the ceiling and the painted panels appear to advantage,’ she pleaded.

  ‘They are indeed worth seeing,’ I suggested. ‘They were painted by Madame Kauffman at her very best.’

  My reluctance to speak down the table was not shared by Sir Marcus. ‘Aye, even better than those at Attingham Park. Have you seen those, sir? Not a patch on these.’

  The fellow was as full of puffery as if he had commissioned and paid for them himself.

  I bowed ambiguously. My origin – in fact my family were members of the haut ton – was not a matter for public discussion. All I wished to be known as, all I was now, was a country parson.

  He ignored my coldness, expounding on the artist’s superiority to her contemporaries, with examples culled from who knew which country houses. If I had believed he had seen them all, I could still not acquit him of name-dropping.

  Just as I was dreading a prolonged session with the port, during which the young men learnt how to hold their liquor while their father continued centre-stage, a footman approached me, telling me quietly but audibly that I had been sent for.

  Sir Marcus obviously concluded that one of my parishioners had need of me, perhaps at yet another death bed, a misapprehension I did not correct. I bowed myself out, with all courtesies to the ladies and gratitude for the evening’s repast, and was escorted swiftly to her ladyship’s sitting room, the least formal of all the rooms in the house, despite the silk hangings and the Grinling Gibbons fireplace.