Page 3 of Secrecy (The Chaplain’s Legacy #4)

T he talk at dinner that night was all about the disaster that had engulfed the Atherton family, and what Walter was to do, since Bea Franklyn had jilted him, now that he was not to be an earl. No one spoke to Tess, beyond the minimum that politeness decreed. What was there to say? She was not responsible for her father’s misdemeanours, but her presence was a constant reminder of him. As soon as Aunt Caroline led the ladies away from the dining room, Tess slipped away to see her mother.

Lady Alice still spent virtually all her time secluded in her private sitting room, one of the round tower rooms at a corner of the castle. She had emerged for the family meeting only because her brother had ordered her to attend, and as soon as she was released, she returned to her sanctuary, having sworn she would not emerge until her husband’s murderer was caught. She was deeply offended by Captain Edgerton, too, who had as good as accused her of murdering her own husband.

Malling, Mama’s personal maid, admitted Tess with a low-voiced admonishment. “Don’t distress her ladyship, Miss Tess. I’m sure you wouldn’t, and she’ll be pleased to see you, I know, but don’t mention the murder.”

Mama sat straight-backed on a small sofa, the only light in the room being a candelabrum set behind the chair where Malling was mending a shift or nightgown. From the window, the sun’s dying rays gave the room a ghostly glow.

“Miss Tess, my lady,” Malling said.

Mama turned her sightless eyes towards the door, looking at a point somewhere beyond Tess’s left shoulder. “Tess! Come in, my dear. Were you at this dreadful meeting today? You understand what has happened? But you must not think badly of your father over this. I am sure he did not know… he could not have realised… he never intended such unfortunate consequences. It was a misunderstanding, I am sure. He must have believed he was ordained, or he would never— He was not a bad man, Tess, and you must never think ill of him.”

Tess hardly knew how to answer her. How was it possible to believe oneself ordained if it were not true? She had heard the story many times of how her father had encountered the late Lord Rennington by chance as they both travelled north. Snowed up at an inn, they had fallen into friendship and the earl had brought his new friend north to be chaplain at Corland, and how could he have done so unless the man had told him he was ordained? And his first act was to marry Aunt Caroline and Uncle Charles, knowing full well that he was not an ordained clergyman, and everyone knew a marriage was invalid without a proper parson. And then to say nothing before Walter was born. Six children altogether, all illegitimate, the entire inheritance in disarray, and all because of her father. Yet somehow, her mother clung to the fiction that he was a good man.

And yet to her, perhaps he was. They had always been a loving couple, so wrapped up in each other that there had never seemed to be room for Tess. She had felt superfluous to their perfect intimacy, beyond their notice, somehow. Mama’s condition made her dependent on Papa for so much. He helped her with food at dinner, he read to her for hours at a time, wrote letters for her, walked or rode with her, or simply talked to her. They never tired of each other’s company, and there was no room for a child in such an arrangement.

Tess had never resented their closeness. There was a freedom in being so often overlooked. Aunt Caroline had kept an eye on her when Tess was a girl, but the prospects for a chaplain’s daughter were so different from the futures laid out for her own daughters that gradually even Aunt Caroline had forgotten her. There was no season in town to arrange for Tess, no eligible match to look out for, no useful connections to invite her to stay in a house with marriageable sons. So Tess had felt free to make her own friends and arrange her own future with Tom Shapman, whose manly body and warm kisses set her shivering all over.

“Mama, it is a little awkward for me here just now, under the circumstances.”

“Dear Tess! It is not as if anyone blames you for this… situation.”

“No, indeed, but it is difficult for the family to speak freely before me. I thought I might go down to Helmsley for a couple of days, to see about more mourning clothes. I could stay with Susan Bullock.”

“Bullock? Oh, the grocer’s daughter.”

“Mr Bullock retired from his trade more than twenty years ago, Mama. He died last winter, if you recall, so Susan is still in mourning.”

“Then she will not encourage you to attend any unsuitable engagements?”

“No, indeed. She lives very quietly with her aunt now. She would be company for me, however, and perhaps a little shopping would cheer me up. If you can spare me, of course. I should not wish to leave you if you have need of me.”

“No, no, I am no company for a girl of your age, not at present, and Helmsley… you cannot get into trouble at Helmsley. It will do you good to get away from home for a while. Do not rush back — stay over the Sabbath, at least. I confess, I do not like you going down to Birchall on Sundays, now that we cannot use our own chapel. You are bound to meet that man there, and there is a danger that you will be drawn back into his sphere. You have not seen Shapman lately, have you? Other than at church, that is?”

Tess pretended to think about it. “I believe I passed him outside the parsonage one day. He bowed, I made the smallest inclination of my head, he moved on.”

“Well done! You must do nothing to encourage him. How presumptuous to think that we should ever allow you to marry a man like that, a man of trade, earning a living with his hands. You are not a great heiress, but you are the niece of an earl, and that should mean something, after all. But I dare say he mistook your natural friendliness for something more, and is now mortified by his mistake. Let us hope that is all in the past, and your father, in his wisdom, has taken steps to ensure that you are never again importuned by anyone so unworthy.”

Tess could not quite see the matter in that light, but there was never any point in arguing with her mother, so she merely said, “May I have the carriage tomorrow, to take me to Helmsley?”

“Of course. And you will have Betty and Harold with you, so you will be quite safe. Remember to take one or other of them with you whenever you go out of doors.”

“Of course, Mama.”

Her trip thus approved, Tess left to tell Betty and Harold of the delight in store for them, and to order the carriage.

***

S usan Bullock was a well-rounded girl of twenty-three, who had admired Tess ever since their accidental meeting over the same ribbon at the haberdashery. For some years now, Susan had been Tess’s friend and confidante, offering a place to stay when she needed to escape from home, and a place to pretend to stay when she wanted to go adventuring. Mostly, her adventures had involved Scarborough and the slightly rakish air of a seaside town. This adventure was more serious.

“I am going to try to find my fortune,” Tess told her friend, as they sat in the best bedroom, the one always assigned to Tess. “It is not at Corland Castle, so it must be at the house at Pickering. My house, in fact, although my trustees will not allow me even to go there. But I am going to go, despite them, to see what I can find.”

“Ooh, Tess, you’re so brave!” Susan said, wide-eyed. “I should never dare! But what will you do? You can’t just walk up to the front door… can you?”

“I am not sure yet,” Tess said with a frown. “However, if it is left to the lawyers nothing at all will be done, so I must find a way to get inside. The widow who lives there must have callers. Friends, perhaps. I shall befriend her.”

“How clever you are!” Susan said.

Tess was not so sure. Susan might be impressed with the idea, but Tess knew perfectly well that she would need to be a great deal cleverer to find any secret hiding places in the house. One could not drink tea in the drawing room with the lady of the house, and immediately institute a search for hidden treasure. There had to be a better way than simply befriending the widow. What was her name? Mayberry. Mrs Mayberry of Apstead House.

“Your aunt will play the game?” Tess said anxiously. Miss Bullock was a lax chaperon, but there was no saying when she might choose to exert her authority.

“Oh, yes. She is used to you, and she is too much in awe of you ever to try to stop you.”

“Good. I have told Mama that I will be gone for a few days, but she knows my ways and will not worry about me if it is longer. If anyone should come looking for me, you need only say that I stayed a while and then went on elsewhere, but you do not know where. I had better send Harold to buy seats for us on the coach. With luck, we may be away this afternoon.”

“I wish you could stay longer,” Susan said wistfully. “It’s not that I mind helping but we have such fun when you stay here properly, not just pretending.”

“With luck, I shall be back in a week or so, and we can have fun then,” Tess said. “But I must find my fortune, you do see that?”

“Oh, yes, of course! It is quite shocking that your lawyers cannot find it themselves, but I am sure you will manage it, and then you will be rich, won’t you?”

“Rich and independent,” Tess said with satisfaction.

With coach tickets obtained, Tess changed into the drab old clothes she kept for her adventures. She had only a small portmanteau, filled with more drab clothes, and a few coins in her reticule, but three purses of money were hidden away on her person. She may have been pretending to be poor, but she had no intention of actually being so, and there was no knowing when she might need to lay out her blunt in a hurry.

The common stage coach was always an adventure to Tess. Harold sat on top, as usual, but Tess and Betty shared the inside with an attorney, a severe looking widow with a snappy dog, a girl travelling to Scarborough to take up a position as a maid and a cage full of ducklings. The widow unbent sufficiently to offer the new maid some advice about working hard and avoiding single gentlemen. The maid said nothing beyond ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘No, ma’am’ , but the exchange gave Tess an idea.

“Housemaids!” she hissed in Betty’s ear as they descended from the coach at Pickering.

“What?” Betty said. “What do we want housemaids for?”

“No, we do not want them. We shall be housemaids. Mrs — the widow in question — must need servants, surely.”

“You, a housemaid?” Betty said. “That I’d pay good money to see.”

“Well, how hard can it be?” Tess said. “Nothing but flicking a duster about.”

Betty only laughed.

It being quite late in the day now, Tess sent Harold to procure rooms for them at the inn where they had arrived, not having much interest in finding anywhere better. They took dinner in the common room, and then set out to find Apstead House. It was not a very prepossessing place, just a modest house in a line of similar houses, except for a certain air of neglect. The gardens were in good order, but the rest of the house had not seen fresh paint for some years, windows were cracked and the one smoking chimney, no doubt from the kitchen, billowed forth dark clouds.

Tess walked past once, turned at the end of the road and then walked past again. “Mrs Widow definitely needs a housemaid or two.”

“And a footman?” Harold said hopefully.

“Unlikely,” Tess said. “A widow is likely to keep an all-female household. But we can find out. Harold, go and ring the front door and ask if Mr Smith is at home.”

“There is no Mr Smith there,” he said, puzzled.

“Of course not,” she said impatiently. “You will be told that and then you apologise and say that you must have mistaken the house. But we wish to see who answers the door — a butler or footman, or a housekeeper or maid. Do you see?”

Belatedly, he did. Tess and Betty stayed out of sight behind a neighbour’s high hedge until he returned. “Housekeeper,” he said. “Very starchy one, too. Looked down her nose at me. I don’t look like a footman, do I? I’m not in livery.”

“No, but you do not look like a gentleman, either. But there you are, Harold. The widow will not want a footman. What did the hall look like?”

“Um… like any hall.”

“Shining furniture? Smell of beeswax polish? Fresh flowers on display?”

“Oh — no, dust everywhere. Smelt fusty, like damp clothes.”

“Aha!” Tess said. “Then she definitely needs maids.”

“We need to find out how folk get their servants here,” Betty said. “It might be all word of mouth, or it might be done at the market, but there could be a registry.”

“We can ask at the inn,” Tess said happily.

There was no registry, they soon discovered. Most positions for servants were filled by word of mouth, or on market days there was a room at the inn where they might wait and those wanting servants would come and look them over.

“That is no good,” Tess said, as she and Betty readied themselves for bed in their tiny room. “We are not looking for just any position. We want to work in that particular house. We are just going to have to take a risk and go to the door.”

“I don’t know anyone who’d take on servants who just came and asked like that,” Betty said dubiously.

“We can only try,” Tess said. “If the widow is desperate enough, she might do it. If not, I shall have to think of something else.”

The following morning saw the two of them outside Apstead House at an early hour. This time it was Harold who lurked out of sight behind the neighbour’s hedge, as Tess and Betty walked boldly up to the front door.

“You know what to say?” Tess hissed. Betty, being older, had been given the task of talking to the housekeeper.

“Aye. Sisters. Just arrived from Thirsk. Had to leave the last place because the son was a pest.”

“Our undimmed virtue should ensure the widow’s sympathy, at least.”

Tess knocked briskly at the door. After several minutes, the starchy housekeeper appeared, a large bunch of keys dangling from the waistband of her gown.

“Yes?”

“Good day, mum,” Betty said. “We heard you might be in need of two honest, hard workin’ maids. Just arrived from Thirsk.”

“References?”

Betty handed over the glowing letters of recommendation that Tess had written that morning.

“Hmm. There is nothing here within the last three years.”

“We had to leave the last place in a hurry,” Betty said. “The son of the house had wanderin’ hands, and when we objected, the mistress turned us off. We’re looking for a place with no young men.”

The housekeeper laughed suddenly. “Oh, there are no young men living here, or old men, either. Only me and my nieces. I can certainly use you, if you truly are honest and hard-working. For some reason, I have had trouble getting maids locally, and I cannot tell why, for we are a quiet household, and the work is not arduous. Twenty pounds a year for the two of you, since you come as a pair. Come in. I’m Mrs Mayberry, by the way.”

Nieces? That was a surprise. And this was no starchy housekeeper, but the widow herself. They followed her meekly into the house.

“You will rise at five,” she said, to a squeak of alarm from Tess, “and clean these four rooms around the hall, and the hall itself. Then upstairs, to my dressing room and the young ladies’ dressing rooms. Ah, here is Margaret. She is head housemaid here. She will supervise you just at first. New under housemaids, Margaret, starting today. I have told them the first duties. What comes after the dressing rooms?”

“Staircase and then servants’ breakfast, madam. Then the bedrooms, corridors and passages, and whatever special tasks there are — rugs to be beaten, or curtains shaken out, windows cleaned and so on. Dinner at one, then the linen to be repaired. During dinner, you help the kitchen maid with the dishes and see that everything’s put away properly. You’ll get into the way of it soon enough.”

“Show them their room, Margaret.”

“Can we go to the inn to collect our things, ma’am?” Betty said.

“If you’re quick about it. Back here and at work within half an hour.”

So began Tess’s career as an under housemaid. For several days, she hardly knew where she was or what she was about. Betty hauled her from her bed at five o’clock every morning — five o’clock! An hour Tess had scarcely known existed except as a time to fall into bed exhausted at the end of a ball. From then on, there was nothing but scrubbing, or so it seemed. No wonder Betty had laughed when Tess had talked about flicking a duster here and there! Margaret wielded the duster, Betty had a jar of furniture polish while Tess, the most junior of them, was delegated to clean the fireplaces.

She had never guessed there was so much work involved. Even though there were no ashes to empty at this time of year, she had to rub the bars and fire irons with oil, then with emery paper and finally with scouring paper. Then the backs of the fireplaces had to be black-leaded twice weekly. And finally, the marble surrounds were washed in soapy water, dried and rubbed over with a linen cloth. And that was just the fireplaces. In addition, the rugs were to be lifted, the floors dusted, or mopped on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and mirrors and windows cleaned. All this for five downstairs rooms and the stairs before breakfast.

And so the day went on relentlessly, until Tess fell exhausted into her bed at close to midnight, only to be shaken awake immediately, or so it seemed. She counted the minutes until the next meal, for at least the food was good and there was plenty of it. The ladies upstairs did even better, for Tess saw every dish of expensive delicacies that went up to the dining room. It seemed this was a recent innovation, for the cook sighed often as she worked and remarked on how pleasant it was to have the best cuts of meat for a change.

“It’s almost like it was in Miss Carlisle’s day,” she said with a beatific smile, but when pressed about Miss Carlisle, her face closed up and she said primly, “My lips are sealed.”

Gradually Tess learned to get through the work speedily, so that there were moments of respite, when she could gaze out of the window at the neat gardens at the back of the house, or the road at the front. Never for long, for Margaret was always around, watching her with what Tess was sure were suspicious eyes. Did she suspect? She must be aware that Tess had never been in service before, her white, unblemished hands giving her away more surely even than her obvious lack of expertise. Still, she could not possibly know who Tess was or what her true purpose was.

Tess had earned some respect from Margaret early in her employment, by voluntarily taking down mirrors and paintings, and opening cupboard doors. “I like to dust the backs properly,” she had said blandly. Margaret had nodded approvingly, but the effort only proved that there was no safe tucked away anywhere in the main rooms. Nor could she see any loose floorboards when she moved rugs here and there. When she occasionally helped Betty with the furniture, she could detect no sign of secret drawers. It was all very dispiriting.

Ten days passed without any discoveries at all. At church, they managed a few words with Harold, who was conducting his own enquiries about the town. By telling people he had worked at Corland Castle, he had found the subject of Mr Nicholson, the murdered chaplain, aroused great curiosity, but he could not find anyone who knew him, or remembered him being in Pickering.

Shortly after this, a curious incident occurred. Tess and Betty had seen nothing of Mrs Mayberry’s nieces, for the junior servants were kept out of sight when the young ladies were about. One afternoon, however, as Betty was pressing undergarments, and Tess was diligently mending sheets, Margaret came through and whispered, “Come to the scullery window.”

The scullery was at the front of the house, with a narrow window overlooking the area. Phyllis, the kitchen maid, was already there, pointing excitedly to the road, where a fine carriage stood, with four horses, two coachmen and two footmen in livery.

“Callers?” Betty said, but Margaret laughed.

“Miss Rochester is going out for the evening. Wait, and you’ll see her in all her finery.”

Within a very few minutes, Mrs Mayberry appeared carrying a portmanteau, and then a girl of perhaps twenty or so, in a rather over-decorated evening gown and cloak, her abundant black curls elaborately dressed.

“Ooh, so pretty!” Phyllis said in hushed tones, as a footman held open the carriage door for Miss Rochester. “Such pretty hair.”

“That’s a wig,” Margaret said. “Her own hair is brown and straight as a stair-rod, but the gentleman likes black curls better.”

Miss Rochester stepped inside the carriage, the footman closed the door and tossed the portmanteau up to the coachman on the box, then hopped onto the back of the carriage. Almost at once, it creaked into motion, the horses stepping smartly away from the house and disappearing down the road.

“Where’s she off to, then?” Betty said.

“It’s not for the likes of us to know where madam’s nieces go to,” Margaret said repressively.

“She ought to have a chaperon,” Betty said.

Margaret looked about to speak, but then closed her mouth firmly.

They all drifted back to the servants’ hall and their afternoon chores, Betty still wondering aloud who owned the smart carriage, and where the girl might be going with an overnight bag. Scarborough, she decided. No doubt there was a ball or some such going on there.

Tess did not have to wonder quite so much. She had recognised the carriage, the coachmen and the footmen’s livery.

The only question in her mind was what Cousin Eustace’s interest was in Miss Rochester.