Restitution
Few of England’s great country houses are as harmonious as they appear.
Even Bartestone Hall in Staffordshire, which one might have supposed to have more chance than most of realising the perfection of its Palladian symmetry in the lives of its occupants, endured its share of disharmony.
It had been purchased by Charles Bingley after his marriage to Jane, neé Bennet, a lady of quite surprising, even alarming, beauty.
Her brief appearance in London society in the days before her wedding trip and retreat to the country had caused many a single young man of fashion to question the wisdom of seeking in town that which, it appeared, was more readily to be found in such wildernesses as Hertfordshire, or perhaps even farther afield.
“Charles,” she said, seating herself without invitation.
“It really is too late to be breaking one’s fast. With country life comes some little license, it is true, but never forget that one is always under the eye of one’s servants, and that such creatures may one day be in a position to do you harm by relaying the lapses they observe to people of real account. ”
“Good morning, Caroline,” Charles said, having mastered his distress at seeing her.
Jane, on the other hand, rose to pour tea for her new sister with unfeigned goodwill. “I was just saying to Charles,” she said, “that it is time to begin planning something for his birthday.”
Caroline looked up sharply. “Oh, Charles!” she cried. “Have you forgotten our agreement already? Are fraternal bonds so quickly cast aside? My goodness, you have not yet been married a year, and already you forsake the needs of your own flesh and blood.”
To keep his countenance, Charles looked out of the window at the knot garden just visible over the balustrade of the terrace, one hand clenching convulsively on his butter knife, but Jane regarded Caroline with contrition.
“I beg your pardon, Caroline. I have been chattering on about this idea and that, never thinking that you might have some prior arrangement of long standing.”
Charles’s head snapped back at once. “We do not—” he started to say, but was interrupted.
“Since first I was out,” said Caroline, decidedly, “we have agreed that, since the Cavendishes’ garden party at Hardwick is always on the tenth, and since two days are not nearly enough to prepare for both that and something of Charles’s, we would hold anything Charles chooses to do in July instead, after I return from Aunt Honoria’s.
Besides, you have never liked any notice being taken of your birthday ever since that nonsense with Il Misterio or whoever it was. ”
“Il Miraggio,” Charles said, looking down at this plate.
Jane saw at once that this apparently nonsense word had conjured up something profoundly disagreeable for him, for all that his usual insouciance soon reasserted itself. “But Caroline, you cannot possibly go to Hardwick this year. You know very well the Darcys will attend!”
Caroline pursed her lips but otherwise ignored this pronouncement, proceeding with an air of martyrish dignity as though she were a governess rising above an act of childish petulance.
“To put your own convenience above the social prospects of your sister,” she continued, “betrays—I am sorry to say—a degree of selfishness I had not thought to find in you, Brother.”
The borders of Jane’s formerly limitless patience had been redrawn after her marriage.
While one might still wander for leagues in several directions and find no end, a straight line, done with a ruler in broad, black ink, now debarred any approach to a slight against her husband.
She frowned and opened her mouth to make a sharp retort but, catching her husband’s eye, closed it again and retook her seat.
Miss Bingley’s visit was not a long one and, with her departure, some semblance of rest returned not only to Bartestone’s master and mistress but also to their servants.
Accordingly, Robson, second footman, took his ease in the servants’ hall during his hour of rest, rather than spending it tramping about the house, the estate, or even the county in pursuit of one whim or another.
The semi-subterranean, oblong room was cool and quiet, the bustle of the kitchens sufficiently far off to be an indistinct, relaxing sound.
He was a tall, dark-haired man, in form somewhat rangy like a hare or running dog, but broad enough in proportion to do his livery coat justice, and with a long nose and pronounced chin that made him quite distinguished, even handsome.
He was darning a sock but looked up at the entrance of Sarah Camberley, Mrs Bingley’s lady’s maid, carrying a bedsheet under her arm. She peered into the room.
“Have you seen Mrs Kerridge?” she asked.
He nodded to the corridor. “She’s in with Mr Heaver.”
She grimaced and, seeing her discomfort, he set aside his mending and rose.
“I’ll come with you if you like.”
The butler’s pantry was farther towards the clamour of the kitchens, the last room on the left before the stairs.
As they approached the room, they heard an exclamation from inside it in the disagreeable voice of Mrs Kerridge, the housekeeper.
It was hard to hear exactly over the hammering of lids on pans, dough on boards, knives on blocks that issued from the open door of Cook’s domain, but both Robson and Sarah caught the words, “For goodness’ sake, calm down and all can continue as it is! ”
Sharing a look of bewilderment with Sarah, Robson knocked on the door.
When Mr Heaver had asked to speak with her in his pantry, Mrs Kerridge eyed him sharply.
The short, puffy butler had a wild look about the eyes and more perspiration than usual on the dome of his head.
He had scuttled off to await her and, finishing with the preserves and locking the cupboard, she washed her hands and followed him some minutes later.
She found him perched on a stool behind his desk, wringing his hands. He looked up sharply as she entered, as though he had forgotten his invitation and feared discovery in some illicit act. His eyes returned to the desk as she shut the door, but his agitation did not diminish. She folded her arms.
“Well?”
He squirmed somewhat, as if his clothes ill fit him.
“I have… I have overreached myself, Mrs Kerridge. And I regret it may put our… enterprise at some risk.”
Mrs Kerridge blanched, unfolded her arms and stepped forwards.
“It had better not,” she hissed. “I’ve worked too hard and waited too long to have a toad like you ruin it. What have you done?”
Mr Heaver closed his eyes and lifted his head to the ceiling. Then he opened them and reached into his jacket to withdraw something. Mrs Kerridge craned her head, but as he kept his fist tightly shut for now, she could make nothing out.
“Do you recall last week that the… master and mistress had me attend them with a picnic… by the lower brook?”
Mrs Kerridge gave a look of distaste. “Yes. Up to all sorts. It’s disgusting. Picnics, swimming in the lake in the altogether. There’s ‘newly married’ and there’s rank immorality, is my view, to say nothing of hygiene.”
“Swimming… yes,” said Mr Heaver. “Well, on this occasion, the master cast off his coat in the most careless manner. Flung it far onto a bank of thick, tall grass, and he and the mistress took off running. I stayed with the picnic things. Presently, they… disappeared around the bend in the stream, paddling in it up to their knees. I think they then climbed up to wander in the thickets. The hazel grove.”
Mrs Kerridge sniffed disagreeably.
“Them being some while,” the butler continued. “I thought to gather up the master’s coat when I noticed that his… watch… had been shaken loose. In fact, it was free of the pocket, the chain quite detached. Lying in the grass.”
“Oh no.” Mrs Kerridge’s eyes moved from his own to his still-clasped hands, then back up to blaze with a chastening fury. As though this compelled him, he opened his fingers to disclose a round Breguet tourbillon watch in sterling silver, with assorted ornaments and a thick, heavy chain.
“You greedy little hound,” she hissed.
“I did not intend to! At first”—Mr Heaver shifted uncomfortably—”but then it occurred to me that those who are so careless with their possessions must inevitably run the risk of losing them.
Then I thought to perhaps confiscate it for a time and be the hero for discovering it, but this all happened—”
“Last week! And Mr Bingley has had parties combing the fields twice, which you yourself led! Why did you not ‘discover it’ then, eh?”
Heaver hung his head.
“I was working out how. And then again…” He looked up at her, greed doing the duty of courage sufficiently to meet her gaze and communicating itself by a glint in his small, watery eyes. “It must be worth ten years’ wages.”
Mrs Kerridge snorted, turning away.
“You’re a fool, Henry. That’s precisely why you should never have taken it. Little bites, didn’t I say? Little bites add up to a meal. One big bite is like to choke you. I suggest you pawn that thing off at once and don’t do anything of the like again. Stick to what we know.”
“But I can’t!” Heaver cried, returning the watch to his pocket.
“It’s engraved! Clear as day, ‘Charles Bingley Can’t go to Jepson here.
Couldn’t sell it in Stoke. Too close. Bingley is well known in London.
The mechanism was ordered from Sheffield, the case from Birmingham!
York is packed with Bingleys and their retainers, and Scotland… ”
He waved his hand to indicate just how out of reach Scotland was.
“Then keep it on you for now,” Mrs Kerridge said, her irritation making her raise her voice beyond what was wise.
“If you go ‘discovering it’ now, after all this time, you’ll have to say when and where, and it’ll be clear as day it was you who took it.
For goodness’ sake, stay calm and all can continue as it is! ”
There was a knock on the door.