Chapter Two #2
While she took shots of the Hall Court, the Retainers’ Court, the Dutchman’s Tower, the Kitchen Court, and the rebuilt East Front—which blended with the old buildings in an unusually tasteful manner—Norville expatiated upon their history.
He had every fact at his fingertips, and his keenness to impart his knowledge was rather endearing.
Jemima hovered around them. Once she interrupted: “Daddy, tell her about the ghost.”
“Piffle!” he exclaimed, waving a hand in a striped mitten. “Ghost indeed! Sheer piffle. Mrs. Fletcher wants the facts.”
Jemima scowled.
“I’d like you to tell me about the ghost, Jemima,” Daisy assured her. “But later.”
“I might,” the girl said sulkily, turning away.
Norville frowned. To distract him, Daisy asked, “What’s that great tall tower on the hill behind the house?”
His frown remained. “The Prospect Tower. I haven’t found any reliable information about it, but it’s probably a late-eighteenth-century folly. Do you want to photograph it?”
Daisy considered. She rather doubted that her photographic skills were up to what looked like a difficult shot. “No, I think not. But what about the chapel by the river? The boatman was telling me about it.”
“The Chapel of Saints George and Thomas à Becket. It was built in the fifteenth century by the first baronet, Sir Richard Norville—before the Norvilles were ennobled—at the spot where he escaped his enemies by a clever trick. He threw his cap into the river and hid in the bushes. They saw it floating and thought him drowned.”
“That’s a good story,” said Daisy, scribbling madly. “Will you show me the chapel?”
“My dear Mrs. Fletcher, the damp! Nothing is so damp as the woods in winter. I never walk in the woods in winter, and I strongly advise you not to do so.”
Daisy laughed. “Oh, I’m as healthy as a horse, I’m afraid. I’d like to see the chapel in the woods. Is it far? Is it hard to find? If you’ll direct me, I’ll find it myself.”
“No, not far,” he admitted vaguely. “Not far at all. But you’d do better to come inside and see the Chapel in the house. I pointed out its windows, you may recall.”
“Later,” said Daisy. “Would you mind awfully taking my tripod indoors for me? I’d rather not carry it.”
Following his reluctant directions, she went down by the terraced gardens to a short but dark tunnel under a farm track. A good place to hide the end of a secret passage, she thought.
It was in this gloomy spot that she became aware that Jemima was not so much going with her as trailing sullenly along after her. Emerging into the valley garden, Daisy paused to admire a fishpond overlooked by a charming thatched summerhouse, and to let the girl catch up.
Jemima lingered behind, apparently entranced by a flowering hellebore. Fed up with her, Daisy went on, past a domed stone dovecote, ancient-looking and a-flutter with white fantails. She stopped to take a couple of snapshots. Jemima still hung back.
Godfrey had said to bear right, towards the gate onto the public footpath from Brockdene Quay to Calstock.
The gravel paths were confusing, sometimes doubling back, here and there interrupted by a stone step or two.
Daisy followed a tumbling stream down the valley towards the river, glimpsed through trees, and hoped she was going in the right direction.
She had to admit it was damp underfoot here, slippery in places, and when she passed through the gate into the woods, the trees, even leafless, created a chilly shade.
Though she hadn’t the least expectation of ill consequences, she could understand why someone susceptible to catching cold would avoid the place.
Noticing several holly bushes laden with bright berries, she hoped the peculiarities of the household would not prevent Christmas decorations. Belinda and Derek were of an age to be well and truly pipped at any deficiency in the festivities.
Daisy came to the chapel, a tiny, very plain stone building half hidden by laurels and rhododendrons. A sign over the door told of Sir Richard’s clever escape. Inside, she found only two pairs of pews facing each other and a small wooden altar, simply carved.
She walked around the chapel to the edge of the cliff and looked down on the river where the first baronet had thrown his cap. His enemies must have been close behind him; otherwise the cap would have sunk or been carried away by the current and Sir Richard’s clever trick would have been wasted.
A rustle in the bushes behind her startled Daisy. Instinctively she jumped backwards, away from the edge.
She wasn’t dressed for swimming. Besides, it was a long way down. One would hit the water hard enough to hurt if one fell over—or was pushed.
Pushed? What put that possibility into her head? It was only Jemima in the bushes, walking away now up the track. The child was surly, but Daisy had no reason to suppose her malicious, let alone murderous.
Daisy returned to the house. Godfrey Norville was waiting to give her a tour of the interior.
“Just a quick look now, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“I left London awfully early this morning and I’m getting a bit tired, and Mrs. Norville invited me to join her for tea at half-past four.
Perhaps you could point out the most interesting items. I’ll make a list; then I can investigate further tomorrow. ”
With some chivvying, she got him through the main part of the old house.
He wanted to tell her the story of every weapon, every coat of arms, every piece of furniture, every tapestry—and practically every wall was hung with tapestries.
Her list was much too long, as she had to placate him by writing down everything he considered particularly noteworthy, but she could easily cut it down to a manageable length.
By half-past four they were back in the Hall.
Jemima met them there. “Mummy says we’re having tea in the library, not Granny’s room, because you’re Lord Westmoor’s guest,” she announced scornfully.
“The library?” Daisy couldn’t remember seeing a library.
“In the East Wing. I’ve got to show you the way.”
“Thank you.” Ignoring the girl’s ungraciousness, Daisy thought gratefully of her stepdaughter’s excellent manners and eagerness to please. Perhaps the contrast would reconcile the Dowager Viscountess to Belinda.
On the other hand, perhaps Daisy could stop her mother coming in the first place. A carefully worded cable about the difficulties of the journey and the earl’s not being expected might do the trick. Following Jemima into the entrance hall of the East Wing, she glanced around for a telephone.
Even as she looked, she realized that while photographing the exterior, she hadn’t noticed any wires.
Brockdene had no electricity, as was to be expected in this rural fastness, but now she came to notice it, there was no gas either.
Like the old house, the East Wing was lit by oil lamps and candles.
Her hope of finding a telephone faded. The nearest telegraph office was no doubt in Calstock, two miles away by a muddy footpath.
Lady Dalrymple would just have to come and make the best of it, not a character trait for which she was noted.
Suppressing a sigh, Daisy entered the room her guide pointed out. Library was a misnomer, for only the far wall had bookshelves, and only halfway up, on either side of a curious little door no more than four feet high. The room was furnished as a sitting room.
Jemima had vanished, but a scrawny woman with fading fair hair jumped up from one of the massive Victorian sofas, dropping a stocking she was darning. She came to greet Daisy.
“Mrs. Fletcher, how do you do!” She spoke with a sort of impetuous eagerness which had something slightly artificial about it. Her front teeth brought to mind a pet rabbit Daisy had once owned. “I’m Dora Norville, Mrs. Godfrey Norville. How delightful to have you come to stay.”
“Yes,” drawled a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty, coming up behind her, “The Pardon has actually offered to bring our tea! I’m Felicity Norville, Mrs. Fletcher. How do you do?”
Felicity was the epitome of the modish “bright young thing.” Her blonde hair was bobbed, lips scarlet, eyebrows and lashes darkened.
Her boyish figure was emphasized by a wide sash around her hips, such as Daisy would never have dared to wear.
Her mauve frock had beaded embroidery all down one side, rather overdoing it for afternoon tea in the country.
Mrs. Godfrey wore a much more appropriate tweed skirt, with a hand-knitted cardigan and a modest string of pearls.
Their greetings answered, Daisy went on, “I’m thrilled to be able to write about Brockdene. In fact there’s so much to write about I don’t know where to begin. What a marvellous place!”
“You wouldn’t think so if you had to live here,” Felicity muttered.
Daisy flashed her a smile of sympathy. The isolation must be hard on a young girl dying to try her wings, though presumably whatever local society existed was more accessible in the summer.
Still, perhaps Felicity longed for the bright lights of London.
From what Daisy had observed, she was unlikely to get there.
The “poor” in “poor relations” seemed pretty accurate, while Westmoor apparently had little regard for the relationship, beyond giving the family a home.
“It’s a privilege to live at Brockdene,” said Dora Norville brightly. “I’ve always admired it, since I was a girl.”
“You grew up in this district?”
“In Calstock, just up the river. Ah, here’s Mother. You’ve met my mother-in-law, haven’t you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Mrs. Norville trotted in, spry as a sparrow, followed by Jemima bearing shawls. Mrs. Godfrey jumped up and went to fuss over the old lady. She settled her by the stone fireplace, where a cheerful fire burned beneath a fanciful wooden mantelpiece carved with lions, dragons, cherubs, and musicians.
“Are you warm enough, Mother?” Mrs. Godfrey enquired anxiously, swathing her mother-in-law in shawls.
“Quite warm, dear. Where is my crochet work, Felicity? That’s it. Thank you, dear. I shall have it finished for you in time for Christmas.”
“Thanks, Gran darling.” Felicity handed over something lacy in lilac artificial silk, and kissed her grandmother’s dark-skinned cheek.
“Has my son shown you the old house, Mrs. Fletcher?”
They talked for a few minutes about the house.
Dora Norville grew more and more anxious, and at last said, “Perhaps Jemima and I had better fetch the tea after all.” She jumped up, but the door opened before she reached it and Mrs. Pardon and a maid came in.
Daisy was pleased to see bread and butter and a good selection of cakes and biscuits as well as the tea things. She was ravenous.
“Golly!” exclaimed Jemima.
Mrs. Pardon pursed her lips. No one else spoke, except Mrs. Norville to thank her, until the servants left.
“What a spread,” Felicity drawled. “All in your honour, Mrs. Fletcher. Not that we’re starved, but the menu tends to be spartan.”
“That’s enough, Felicity,” snapped her mother. “Milk and sugar, Mrs. Fletcher? Jemima, pass the bread and butter.”
Tea and conversation proceeded on more conventional lines. Being well brought up, Daisy did not utter the myriad questions which assailed her, but she vowed to herself to try and get Felicity on her own and pump her. She looked like the best bet to provide a few answers.
And answers Daisy must have, or she was going to die of curiosity.