Page 88 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #1)
‘It isn’t far,’ he said, as he settled himself opposite them. They were driving through streets of the same red terraces they had seen from the train, but soon they passed into a broader thoroughfare, with plane trees planted at either side.
‘How did you first meet Mr Cowling?’ Nina asked.
‘My father was the parish priest in the same village where Mr Cowling was born,’ he said.
She nodded encouragingly, so he went on, ‘When he had made his fortune – or, I should say, the first part of it – he went back to the village to see what good he could do. The church, All Saints, was a little dilapidated, so he made a generous donation for repairs and improvements.’
‘That was an admirable thing to do,’ Lepida said, finding her voice at last.
He looked at her. Did Nina imagine it, or did Lepida shudder at the impact of those eyes? ‘He is a very fine man, generous and good.’
‘So after that, I suppose, he became friendly with your father,’ Nina prompted.
‘Indeed. And finding that, as usual, a large clerical family is not a rich family, he undertook to send us boys to school at his expense, and when school was finished, he offered me a position as his secretary. You can imagine,’ he concluded, ‘how grateful all the Blakes are to Mr Cowling. We pray every day for his continued health and happiness.’ He gave Nina an almost urchin-like grin.
‘It seems our prayers have been answered.’
He pointed out various landmarks. ‘The river is over that way. The green space over there is the racecourse. And here we are, Beechcroft House.’
It was a red-brick building in the Victorian with narrow ‘church’ windows, gables, decorative pinnacles and so on. There was a sweep in front, skirting a thick, old-fashioned shrubbery, and a very large tree grew to one side, though Nina noticed it was not a beech but a yew.
Blake noticed the direction of her gaze, and said, ‘It’s thought there was a church on this site a long time ago.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lepida. ‘Churchyards nearly always have a yew tree in them, don’t they?’
‘Yes, for the magic, to ward off evil spirits, I believe,’ said Blake. ‘There’s no trace left of the church. Beechcroft House itself isn’t old – it was built in about 1870. The yew is probably six or seven hundred years old.’
‘Let’s hope the magic still works,’ Lepida said.
And now the door of the house had opened, and Mr Cowling had emerged, hurrying to open the cab door and let down the step. Blake hopped out of the other side and made himself useful paying the driver, while Cowling dispensed handshakes and a modest kiss on the cheek for Nina.
‘Come in, come in, and welcome. Luncheon will be ready directly – you’ll be hungry after your journey.
Oh – your coats! Decius, take the coats.
And your hats – aye, I want you to be comfortable.
You’re at home now – you too, Miss Morris.
I hope you’ll visit whenever you feel like it.
You’ll always be welcome here. This is Mrs Mitchell, my housekeeper, who’s looked after me for years.
Miss Sanderton and her friend Miss Morris. ’
The housekeeper dropped a dutiful bob, but her eyes flicked over Lepida indifferently, and lighted on Nina with what Nina felt, before it was veiled, was quite definitely hostility.
‘Well, are you satisfied with your new house?’ Lepida asked, as the train trundled towards London.
‘It wasn’t what I expected,’ Nina said.
The Gothic style needed some getting used to.
The house was not large, only six bedrooms, but it was pretending to be a medieval mansion.
The heavy oak doors, stained glass, coloured tiles, baronial fireplaces, elaborately carved panelling and grim black-iron gasoliers all made an emphatic statement in what was, after all, a suburban villa.
Mr Cowling was obviously indifferent to architectural style, and apparently had not spent much time there anyway, but to modern eyes, Gothic was a joke, and could one be happy living in a joke?
Still, she would have an establishment, and for a girl without dowry that was everything.
She should be grateful. She would be grateful.
Along with the house, of course, she would inherit the servants.
The elderly manservant, Moxton, was Mr Cowling’s valet and also acted as butler.
He was tall, with skinny legs and a shock of white hair, and when he bent over Nina serving the soup he had smelt strongly of mothballs.
The house-parlourmaid, Nellie, plump and shiny of face, helped at table, and there was a cook, though she lived out and only came in when required, Mr Cowling being away so much.
When he was not at home, Mrs Mitchell and Nellie did the cooking between them.
‘What did you think about Mrs Mitchell?’ Nina asked Lepida. ‘Did you think there was anything, well, odd about her?’
Lepida knew immediately what she meant. ‘I don’t think she liked you.’
‘So it wasn’t my imagination! But why?’
‘Probably because she’s looked after Mr Cowling for years and years, and now you’ve arrived to put her nose out of joint.’
‘But I haven’t—’
‘She’s jealous,’ said Lepida. ‘You often see it with these old servants. They become possessive. Don’t worry about it, she’ll get used to the situation.
’ She didn’t add, because she didn’t want to make Nina any more apprehensive, that it was possible Mrs Mitchell was a bit in love with her master.
Cowling was a decent-looking man and had obviously been handsome in earlier years.
And his wife had been dead for five years.
That, too, would sort itself out, she thought.
There was no need to stir up trouble. ‘It will be better when you get more servants in. She’ll have other people to think about then. ’
‘I don’t know if we’ll need them.’
‘Mr Cowling talked about entertaining, in which case you certainly will,’ Lepida said. ‘By the way,’ she went on, as Nina was about to protest, ‘are you always going to call him “Mr Cowling”?’
‘Until after the wedding, anyway,’ Nina said; and felt a bit peculiar at the thought of being married to him.
When Giles made the announcement, Richard jumped up from the table and ran around it to kiss Kitty in congratulation, the girls clapped their hands in excitement, and Uncle Sebastian rumbled his approval and pleasure.
But the dowager looked at Kitty through narrowed eyes, as though she had done something underhand, and then said coldly, ‘You will not ride any more, of course.’
‘Not – ride?’ Kitty faltered.
‘Until after the baby is born.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s right,’ Giles said. ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but ladies in a delicate condition mustn’t ride. It’s too dangerous.’
‘But you’ve just bought me Apollo.’
Richard intervened. ‘I’ll keep him exercised for you.’
‘Will your shoulder stand the strain?’ Giles asked.
‘You wouldn’t have bought him if he was a puller,’ Richard pointed out. ‘I can amble about gently with him. It will be a good way to get back into action.’
‘If he’ll carry a cross-saddle.’
‘Oh, Giddins and I between us will persuade him.’
All right for you , Kitty thought. A little sulkily, she asked, ‘Is there anything else I mustn’t do?’
Nobody said anything, but she met Giles’s eyes and the same question occurred to both of them. Of course, it was not something either of them could ask his mother. They both looked away, embarrassed.
The anniversary of the old earl’s death came, and there was a memorial service at St Peter’s, with the whole neighbourhood attending, and a very beautiful choral work performed by the choir.
The following day, the dowager went up to London for a week, to buy new clothes and meet old friends.
The anniversary marked the end of her mourning period.
‘Couldn’t wait to get away,’ Sebastian remarked to Giles. ‘Unseemly haste?’
But Giles said, ‘I can’t blame her. I don’t suppose, from what little I can gather, my father was an easy man to live with.’
‘Mourning’s not about feelings,’ Sebastian said. ‘it’s about perceptions. Still, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it. You broke the mould by getting married. And,’ he went on, before Giles could comment, ‘that was a very good thing you did for Ashmore.’
Giles thought he was referring to Kitty’s money.
Sebastian smiled, knowing exactly what was on his mind, and went up to play the piano, hoping that the sewing-maid would appear.
He played better with an audience. No, little Kitty would be good for Ashmore in many other ways – as soon as Maud could be persuaded to loosen her grip.
Next, the traditional farmers’ dinner was held at the Crown in Canons Ashmore.
The fine old coaching inn was finding a new role for itself, since the railways had killed coaching.
There was a new fashion for Londoners to take pleasure trips out into the nearby countryside.
Visitors sought the historic, the picturesque, the quaint, but they still wanted London-class food and accommodation.
The farmers’ dinner was a male-only event, at which Giles, assisted in this case by Richard, beguiled the local farmers with a slap-up meal, and plenty of port and cigars, to talk about local matters, to moot improvements, to air problems, and to renew their devotion to the hunt.
Giles had attended it once with his father, and had woken the next morning with a head like a pumpkin from the port and a throat like a cheese-grater from the cigar smoke.
He did not relish having to do it every year and, in the coach on the way home, said to Richard, ‘You seem remarkably chipper. How do you cope with this sort of thing?’
‘Practice,’ Richard said unhelpfully.