1 Arrivals
STAINEYBANK, brINSHIRE; MARCH
Cora Merrington sighed, looking at the vast number of daffodils sitting in the sink in the flower room waiting to be put into vases.
There was no denying that a daffodil was a delightful sight, its cheery yellow brightening the final days of winter with the promise of sunshine to come, yet one could have too much of a good thing.
Perversely, she now longed for the heady days of summer and the delicate colours of roses, and oh, the fragrances!
At that moment, she would trade buckets of daffodils for a handful of sweet peas, a branch of lilac, the warm scent of lavender or the aromatic leaves of the herb garden.
She shook her head at herself, knowing quite well why she was out of sorts these days.
There was nothing sadder than a widow with no further purpose in life.
Her only son was married to a girl of independent mind, who was respectful to her mother-in-law and even listened to her advice, but then went her own way.
With their two daughters, they formed a close family circle, and although they never excluded the girls’ grandmother, neither was there any obvious r?le for her.
As for Cora’s four daughters, her efforts to find husbands for them had been abject failures, for three remained stubbornly unwed and the youngest had settled her own future.
Now they were all subservient in the household of the Duke of Brinshire, and however comfortable it was, and indeed she was deeply grateful for her good fortune, it was not her own house with servants who answered to her alone.
If only Roland had not died so early! She had thought they had another twenty years together, and although her marriage had been a pragmatic rather than romantic choice, they had rubbed along together rather well.
He had been more of a companion to her than any of her children.
She was brought out of her reverie by the rain lashing at the windows. Giving herself a mental shake for allowing herself to become maudlin, she set to work on the daffodils again. Only another twelve vases to be filled.
A few minutes later, Froggett, the butler, sidled in with an apologetic cough. “Beg pardon for disturbing you, madam, but with her grace in Cheshire and Mrs Richard not receiving yet and Miss Hester taking her nap and Miss Charlotte gone into Brinchester…”
How mortifying to be the fifth choice to deal with any domestic crisis!
“Yes, Froggett?”
“There are some visitors… a Mr Garth from Gloucestershire and his family… they have brought luggage.”
“Garth? I do not recognise the name. Were we expecting anyone?”
“No, madam. Mr Garth informed me that he has a letter from his grace inviting him to come here. Something to do with the woods and gardens.”
“But we know nothing of it. Oh, Froggett, can this be another invitation from Mr Goodenough?”
The butler’s face brightened. “That must be it, madam! I shall inform Mr Hammond immediately.”
“Oh yes, he will want to know. Goodness, how exciting! Where have you left them, Froggett? And what sort of people are they?”
“I put them in the Blue Parlour to warm up, madam. It is very chilly weather to be travelling. They are very… um, smart I believe is the expression.”
“Oh.”
“Their cards, madam. I shall have rooms prepared for our guests.”
As she climbed the stairs from the basement, not too fast for she did not want to appear out of breath, she scanned the three cards.
‘Mr Charles Garth of Lampton Priory, Gloucestershire’ and ‘Mr Edward Garth’ of the same address.
Father and son, perhaps. ‘Mrs Charles Garth’ with ‘Miss Violetta Garth’ added by hand.
Mother and a young daughter, newly out. One of thousands of families the length and breadth of England, landed gentry, not distinguished enough for a title, yet no doubt perfectly respectable.
Froggett had described them as smart, but what did that mean? Fashionable? Ostentatious?
As soon as she entered the Blue Parlour she understood.
The four were arranged as if for a portrait, the two ladies side by side on a sofa, pelisses artfully unfastened to display fashionable gowns beneath, their bonnets wholly unsuitable for travelling.
They sported identical tendrils of hair either side of their faces, the locks constrained into rigid curls by heated tongs and a determined lady’s maid.
The two men were placed either side, the father on a gilt chair with arms, like a throne, deliberately brought forward from the far corner where it normally sat, and the son standing, greatcoat cast aside and coat unbuttoned to display a waistcoat of eye-watering design.
Both had their hair arranged in the fashionable windswept style.
It was, she supposed, intended to be an affecting portrayal of a distinguished family but it made her want to laugh.
The father rose, and bowed low. “Your grace.”
“The duchess is in Cheshire at the moment, visiting her family,” Cora said brightly. “I am Mrs Merrington. My son is heir to the Duke of Brinshire.”
The father looked bewildered, but his daughter said, “The duke has no sons, Papa, remember? His heir is a cousin, Mr Richard Merrington.”
Cora smiled at her. “A second cousin once removed, to be precise. You must be Miss Violetta Garth, and Mr Charles Garth is—?”
“I am he,” the father said grandly. “You see before you my wife and eldest daughter, and my son and heir, Edward.”
The son bowed, Mrs Garth made a small inclination of her head, and only the daughter, rising gracefully, made a respectful courtesy.
Cora was used to such dismissal. They saw her as mere gentry, no better than themselves, yet if circumstances had been different, she would indeed have been Her Grace the Duchess of Brinshire.
But Roland had died and the present duke had lived a full span of years, so now she was only the mother of the heir.
One day her son would be a duke, but she would still be Mrs Roland Merrington.
“You had a letter from the duke inviting you to Staineybank, I understand?” Cora said. “Might I have a sight of the letter?”
Mr Garth’s eyes narrowed. “You disbelieve me?”
“Not at all, but this has happened before, that visitors arrived unexpectedly, and I wished to know whether your arrival is due to the same mischievous hand.”
“Mischievous?”
“It is hard to think of a more apt description. Three times previously there have been just such unexpected arrivals, but never before a family, only individuals. May I perhaps see the letter?”
“I do not have it to hand.”
“Then perhaps you would be so good as to tell me the name of the person who wrote to you?”
“I am here by the invitation of His Grace the Duke of Brinshire,” he said loftily. “He franked the letter. What more do you need to know?”
Jamie Hammond arrived just then at a rush, his eyes glittering with excitement. “Is it another one?” he said to Cora. “Oh — a family! That is unusual.”
“That is just what I have been explaining to Mr Garth,” Cora said. “His letter was franked by his grace, but if so, you would have written it.”
“I have never written to Mr Garth,” Jamie said. “I am the duke’s secretary, Mr Garth. I write all his official letters. May we perhaps see the letter?”
“What is this interest in the letter?” Mr Garth said testily. “The duke has summoned me, and I am come at his bidding. Naturally, I have brought my family with me. I do not like to be interrogated in this disrespectful manner.”
“Was it written by a Mr Goodenough, claiming to be an attorney-at-law from Brinchester?” Jamie said.
“Claiming to be an attorney? ”
“There is no such person as Mr Goodenough. We do not know who is perpetrating these pranks, but so far they have been very successful. Mr Goodenough, whoever he is, chooses well. What reason did he give for bringing you here, sir?”
“I am to advise on improvements to the woods and gardens. I have recently conducted such work on my own land, with some success, and no doubt word of this has reached his grace’s ears.”
“Or Mr Goodenough’s,” Jamie said smiling. “I can assure you, sir, that the duke knows nothing of this matter.”
“You are privy to his mind, are you?”
“No, only his correspondence, and unless he wrote to you in his own hand, any letter from the duke would pass through my pen. But a glance at your letter would settle the matter beyond question.”
Mr Garth seemed prepared to dispute the point, but Cora hastily intervened.
“Perhaps later, Mr Hammond. The Garths will wish to rest and unpack before dinner. We dine at five sharp, when you will meet the duke and this matter may be settled once and for all. His grace dislikes unpunctuality and informality, so please wear full dress, with knee breeches for the gentlemen. Will you please follow me, and I will show you to your rooms.”
***
Cora arrived early in the White Drawing Room that afternoon to be ready to greet the newcomers, but Charlotte was already there directing Froggett and the footmen.
Cora retreated to her favourite chair with her workbasket, determined not to resent her eldest daughter’s effortless management of the house.
Below stairs Charlotte reigned supreme, her still room a model of orderliness, her accounts perpetually up to date, and when the duchess was away, she stepped in to take charge even in the spectacular setting of the formal rooms. For a brief time that day, Cora had been the mistress of Staineybank and taken charge of the Garths, but now she was no longer needed.
Hester Merrington crept in a little while later, pale and thin.
She was described as a cousin to the duke, the sort of indigent relation found in every family, who had acted as a glorified housekeeper for years.
Illness had overtaken her, and she now spent her days in a comfortable set of rooms on the ground floor, where she had no need to struggle with the stairs.
She sat beside Cora without even the energy to pretend to be working on her stitchery.