Fear For Frances Part 2

'The housekeeper would know, I suppose.'

'I asked her, and she said there should be a bunch of keys hanging up in her room, but it isn't there, and she doesn't know where it's got to. The catch on this door doesn't hold properly, and what with people wandering in and out of these rooms in the middle of the night, I want to lock this door to give us both a good night's rest.'

'Have you tried the dressing-room door? There may be a key in the lock there which would fit.'

'I knew you'd think of something.' He beckoned to her. 'Come and see the Major. Sleeping like a baby with half my supper inside him, as well as some broth and an egg custard which they sent up for him earlier. They can't find his yellow powder anywhere, and all I can say is, I hope that Nurse Moon took it with her, because he can do without it.' He had donned a collar and jacket, but was still without shoes. He disappeared into the sick-room, still talking, and Frances followed him, knowing that she was foolish to expose herself once more to the sight of a man who reminded her so much of Walter, and yet unable to resist doing so.

The room had been cleaned, and was now warm. An oil lamp threw shadows across the bed, and these shadows tussled with the ones thrown by the fire in the grate.

'You have done well, Benson,' said Frances, as he held back the bed curtains so that she could see the sick man. Lord Broome stirred. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, frowning either with pain or the effort to remember who she might be. She thought: He is not at all like Walter ... how could I have thought that he was? Her hand went out, as if of its own volition, to push the hair back from his brow.

She said, 'You are not going to die.'

He moved his head so that her hand lay along his cheek. She withdrew her hand and put it over her heart. She felt she must leave the room at once, before it was too late.

'The Major always did sleep lightly,' said Benson, nudging her arm with a gla.s.s containing a dose of medicine. 'He knows me now. Can't say my name properly yet, but he knows I'm here to help him and not to harm him. He goes by voices since he was. .h.i.t on the head. Maybe his sight's not clear yet. I've known that happen. He knows my voice, and he knows yours. He didn't like the nurses, either of them. Nor the older doctors. He thinks the young doctor's all right, but he's hardly ever here. Now if you'll just give the Major this sleeping draught which the young doctor left for him ...? He'll take food and drink from me, but he won't take any medicine.'

Frances drew back. 'No. I don't want to ...'

'You must. He fell on his bad arm, see? He can't seem to sleep for long without it troubling him. That young doctor seems to know more about such things than his uncle, and I could see he was worried about his arm, same as I am. It's only laudanum, Miss.'

'Mrs Peach ... get her to do it.'

'She's asleep on my bed next door. I'm to rouse her at twelve, when she'll sit with him until morning. The young doctor said I was to get a good night's rest for once and I'll admit I could drop off right now, but I daren't leave him like this, with his arm hurting and that dratted door unlocked so that anybody could walk in and murder him.'

As if to lend weight to his argument, at that very moment voices were to be heard approaching the bedroom door. Frances was alarmed. She had no wish to be found in the sick-room twice in one day. Telling Benson that she would see if there were a key in the dressing-room door, she went through the communicating door, leaving it ajar behind her. The dressing-room was small. On a cot bed Mrs Peach, the midwife, slept. Large wooden cupboards lined the walls. There was a marble-topped washstand, and a hip bath. A full-length pier-gla.s.s hung on a mahogany stand. This gla.s.s was so placed - presumably by Benson - that anyone lying on the bed would have a view through the doorway into the sick-room beyond. A night-light burned on the washstand.

Frances had not left the sick-room a moment too early, for as she bent over the lock of the door which led out of the dressing-room back on to the Gallery, she heard Lady Amelia telling Benson that he might wait outside the sick-room. The door from the dressing-room on to the Gallery was locked, and there was no key in sight. She could not escape that way. What was she to do? It would be embarra.s.sing to be found there, as if she were in hiding. She put up a hand to smooth her back hair. She decided to wait in the dressing-room until Lady Amelia had gone. Then she heard the old lady say, 'Come here, Isabella.' So Miss Seld was there, as well? Frances bit her lip. It was most unfortunate that she had left the door between dressing-room and sick-room ajar. She had no wish to eavesdrop, but she was going to be able to hear every word spoken next door. Ought she not to make her presence known?

'I'd prefer to wait outside, if you are going to pray over him.' That was Isabella's voice, and she sounded sullen.

'I want you to look at him. There! Doesn't the sight of him, lying there so thin and worn, move you at all? Remember what he meant to you, only a few months ago? Remember that he has left you all his money! If you cannot love him, at least you can show your grat.i.tude by helping to look after him now he is dying. His aunt is too weakly, Maud too interested in her own concerns to nurse him; but you ... you could, couldn't you?'

'I remember only too well what he was to me. He took advantage of me, because I was young and knew no better, while all the time he was leading a double life with that wh.o.r.e!'

'Servants' tattle. He denied it, and I believed him. And so ought you. If you had only stood by him, my girl, no one would have believed there was anything in the story. Breaking off your engagement like that was the most damaging thing you could have done to him. It confirmed everyone's suspicions ...'

'The woman was pregnant, remember?'

Someone sighed. There was a swirl of silk, and the door on to the Gallery banged. A moment of silence, and then the other woman also swept out, closing the door more gently as she went.

Frances found herself standing at Lord Broome's bedside without knowing how she got there. His eyes were open, his head was turned to the door, and there was an expression of puzzlement and pain on his face. It seemed that he had heard and understood enough of what had been said to disturb him.

'Oh, hus.h.!.+' said Frances. It was an absurd thing to say, for he had not spoken. She took his sound hand in hers and began to stroke it, trying to think of words which might comfort him. 'You must not let her upset you. There are other girls, with warmer hearts, who would stand by you in a time of trouble. I don't know what it was that you did, but I'm sure it can't have been anything very terrible.'

She slipped her arm under his shoulders and raised him so that his head rested in the angle between her neck and shoulder. She was very conscious of her own strength, and of his weakness. She willed him to rest and to sleep. He was very tense. Remembering that Benson had said the sick man had enjoyed hearing her sing, she began to hum a lullaby. He began to relax against her. She set the sleeping draught to his lips. He refused it. She told him to behave himself. He drank it. She was pleased with him, and told him so. His eyes closed, and he breathed lightly but easily. Her shawl was still around his shoulders. She tucked it round him more closely and laid him back on the pillows; and then, absent-mindedly, almost in pa.s.sing, as if she were settling a sick child down for the night, she kissed his forehead.

Only, he had not been quite asleep. His eyelids flickered. He smiled. Then turned his head slightly away from her, and fell asleep.

She put her hands over her hot cheeks. Had she really kissed him, a grown man? Why? Because he had reminded her of Walter? No, because he was not really like Walter. He was more like Agnes, and that might have been why ...

A movement at her side increased her embarra.s.sment. Benson had observed what she had done. 'I'll not blab, Miss. It was like a blessing. I only hope that when my time comes, someone will do the same for me. I shouldn't wonder if it didn't do him more good than a dozen sleeping draughts. And he never did it, Miss. You can take my word for that.'

'You were listening at the door? Yes, of course. You would.'

'I wanted to be sure they didn't harm him.'

'But what was it that he did?'

'What was it that he didn't do, you mean? Murder, Miss. And if you haven't found the key for the door, I'll set a chair under the k.n.o.b when you've gone, to keep us safe for the night.'

Murder! The word echoed in Frances' dreams, and kept time with her footsteps as she walked across the park to church next morning. Mur ... der ... Mur ... der ...

Snow clouds pressed low on the trees, but the wind had dropped. Only the occasional snowflake fell slowly to the earth. Attendance at church was obligatory for everyone at Furze Court. Most of the family had gone in the carriage, driving the winding mile through the park, past the lodge gates and out on to the road which led through the village to the church. Agnes and Miss Seld had chosen to walk through the shrubbery, across the rickety wooden footbridge over the sullen river, and then to the door in the wall of the park, which led into the churchyard. Agnes had something on her mind, and chose not to reply when Frances spoke to her. Frances felt that this was just as well, for she had slept badly, hearing the word 'murder' in her dreams.

At first Isabella was equally silent, but on the return journey she slipped her arm through that of the governess, and begged the favour of a word with her. Agnes had run on ahead. Frances said that she ought to keep her charge in sight, especially crossing the bridge, which looked most unsafe to her.

'Yes, indeed,' said Isabella, and s.h.i.+vered. Once across the bridge, however, Isabella was not to be put off. She began by saying that she had seen Frances reflected in the pier-gla.s.s in the dressing-room, the night before.

Frances started, and would have given an explanation of her presence there, but Isabella was not interested in other people's concerns - only in her own.

'You were not at the Court last year, Miss Chard. I do wish you had been. I can see that you are the sort of person who can understand and sympathise. My trouble is that I have no one, absolutely no one, to talk to. Well, Gran is marvellous for her age, of course, but she can't really remember what it is like to be young and pretty. And Maud is so ...' She did not specify exactly what she thought of Maud, but Frances nodded. 'There you are - I was sure you would understand and be able to advise me. It's about Gavin ... Lord Broome ... of course. I was so young, only seventeen, and everyone urged me to take him, and of course he had a lot of money and was very charming and although he hadn't got a house of his own, he had plans to build one; it was very flattering that he should pay court to me when he must have known that he could have had almost anyone; Maud has been after him for years, I know, and Susan Armstrong, and ... well, lots of girls. And I did think it would be nice to be married and rent a house in Town for the Season and he never said or did anything to indicate that underneath ... in fact, at first I couldn't believe it, but Maud said ... and then, of course, it all came out at the inquest and I couldn't marry him after that, could I?'

'I'm afraid I know nothing about it.'

'He'd been carrying on with the wife of the lodge-keeper here. His name is Jervis. You must have seen him around. A big, dark man. He was very cut up about it, because it had been going on under his nose for months, and he only found out when she got pregnant. There was a row and he turned her out of the house. She came straight up to the Court and was with Gavin - quite openly - for hours. I remember that because we had been going to go riding together and he put me off. Then when she came out of the gun-room, after seeing Gavin, she told the butler that she was going to live in Lewes and be a lady, and so, of course, they all guessed what had been going on, although n.o.body told me about it for ages. Only she didn't stay in Lewes. Perhaps if she had, if it had only been a pa.s.sing thing, and someone had told me later on, after we were married, I could have forgiven him, although I could never have understood it, for she was quite impossible, you know. Her father was a gypsy.'

'You mean you could have forgiven him for a pa.s.sing infatuation?'

'Y-yes. Although I must say that I was beginning to have doubts about him even before Lilien died. Lilien was her name. You see, Gavin would say something and I could never be sure whether he was laughing at me or not, and he was forever going up to London on what he called business, but as I told him, if he really was in love with me, he wouldn't always be wanting to leave me here by myself with no one to talk to.'

'What did he say to that?' asked Miss Chard, who had formed the uncharitable opinion that Isabella was one of the silliest creatures she had ever come across. She was not at all surprised that an intelligent, well-read man like Gavin Broome had been amusing himself with another woman on the side.

'Oh, he tried to talk to me about politics, and investments and Uncle Manning's charities, and all that sort of boring thing. It makes me shudder,' continued Miss Seld, unconscious of the disapproval she had aroused, 'to think how nearly I married him. There was even talk of my going back to South Africa with him when his leave was up. Then Lilien gave him away. She came back to meet him in the park by the footbridge. Gavin said she slipped and fell into the river and drowned accidentally, but there was a bruise on her forehead as big as a pigeon's egg, and, of course, everyone knew that Jervis wasn't the father of the child she was carrying. The verdict at the inquest was misadventure, but afterwards, when they buried her, Lilien's father swore that he'd be revenged on the House of Broome. I didn't go to the funeral, of course, but I was told about it. So I wrote Gavin a note and said that I thought I was too young to commit myself in marriage just yet. And he came to see me, and tried to make me change my mind, and Gran said ... and I cried and cried, but I couldn't! I just couldn't!'

'He denied it?'

'Oh, yes, of course. He would, wouldn't he? But he looked so red and so ... as if he knew all about it really. I pretended to believe him, because I can't bear people shouting at me, but he could see I didn't really believe him. He went all stiff and stem and said he thought I was probably right about our not marrying straight away. He said he would go up to London on some business matter or other the next day, so that I needn't think of cutting short my visit to the Court on his account. And that was the last I saw of him.'

'I understand,' said Frances.

'I don't think you do,' said Isabella, laughing to distract attention from an embarra.s.sing blush. 'It's not about that I wanted to speak to you. Or only indirectly. You see, the thing is - ought I to accept Gavin's money, seeing that it comes from a tainted source? He made a Will just before he went away, leaving everything to me apart from a small legacy to Benson and, of course, something in trust for Richard. I quite expected him to change his Will after I broke off our engagement, but he didn't. Gran thought that he had left the Will as it was, hoping that I might forget about Lilien while he was away, and that we might make up the match again on his return. We don't have any money of our own, you see, and most of the year we spend visiting in other people's houses, and it's not a very nice life. I can see Gran's point of view; she wants to see me settled. Only I've grown up quite a lot since last summer. I'm eighteen now and have seen more of the world and been to several parties although, of course, Gran can't afford to give me a Season in Town. I've learned to appreciate men who are prepared to devote their lives to the service of G.o.d.'

Frances was quick to pick up this hint. 'There is someone else ...'

'That's my problem. Gran doesn't approve of my wis.h.i.+ng to marry someone who is only a curate, though his second cousin dines with the Bishop twice a year, and we're sure that it's only a matter of time before Edwin gets a good living. But if I do accept Gavin's money, then I think Gran would agree that Edwin and I could get married straight away. Edwin could do so much good with the money, even if it did come from a man who ... well, you know what he did.'

'Are you asking me for advice, Miss Seld? Or seeking approval of a course of action on which you have already decided?' Frances thought of the Will which had been discovered in Gavin Broome's Bible, the Will which left everything to Maud. She did not know what to say to Isabella. It was not her place to advise the girl. Shallow as Isabella undoubtedly was, Frances could pity her, knowing how false her hopes were of inheriting Gavin Broome's money. 'I suggest you consult with some member of your family; Mr Manning, for instance.' She withdrew her arm from Isabella's, and hurried after Agnes.

'No more confidences,' she said to herself. 'I cannot bear it.' But what it was she could not bear, she did not put into words.

Hugo removed his cigar from his mouth. 'I am in a very delicate position here, you know.'

His uncle s.h.i.+vered and drew nearer to the fire. The two men were sitting in the gun-room which served not only as a smoking-room, but also as the estate office. In addition, it housed some of the smaller pieces from the Broome collection of antique weapons, although the greater part had long since been consigned to the cellars.

'This new Will,' said Hugo, who did not appear to feel the cold as his uncle did, 'seems to be perfectly in order, although naturally we must have the opinion of the family solicitors on it. Will you break the news to Isabella?'

'I would rather wait until Mr Cotton has had a look at it,' said Mr Manning. Mr Cotton was the family solicitor, and his office was in Lewes. 'It's Gavin's signature all right, but somehow ...'

'You would like to know why Gavin left nothing to his brother and to his servant under this new Will? I doubt if we will ever know. I suppose he may have cut Richard out of his Will because his brother didn't back him up over that scandalous affair of the woman Jervis. Perhaps Benson is not quite the devoted servant he pretends to be. Who knows?'

'Gavin said nothing to me about changing his Will when he stayed with us last summer, and he was with us right up to the day he sailed back to South Africa. I can understand his wis.h.i.+ng to cut Isabella out of his Will after the way she let him down, but ... we talked freely on so many other subjects ... I would have expected him to have mentioned the matter to me if ...'

'It's plain that he changed his mind about leaving the money to Isabella after he got back to South Africa. The new Will is quite recent - early in February - after Richard's death. Although, of course, at the time he could not have known of his brother's death. It is all in order. I repeat: Isabella ought to be told, and you seem to me to be the person best qualified to break the news to her.'

Mr Manning sighed. He had a monkey-like face with luxuriant whiskers. He divided his time between charitable concerns and his own large family. He reflected that if Gavin had wanted to throw his money around, he might at least have thrown some in the way of his uncle's charities, or even in the way of his uncle's children. Why should everything have gone to Maud, whom Gavin had never liked? Why not equally to Maud and Agnes, if he had wanted to leave the money in the family? Gavin had always been fond of Agnes and deplored the fact that the child was alternately petted and neglected. It was a puzzle.

Hugo placed a solid white hand over his uncle's. 'You are a great comfort to me, in this difficult time. You will speak to Isabella? Maud already knows.' A conscious look came over his face. 'I really think that Isabella ought to be told at once.'

'Very well,' said Mr Manning. 'I will tell her.' He threw another log on the fire, which began to smoke. He wished he were safely back in London, with his wife and children. Poor Rosalie! With three of the younger children down with measles, she had been unable to come with him ... 'd.a.m.n this chimney! When do you think it was swept last?'

'In the days of old King William, I should think,' said Hugo. 'There is much that needs to be done.' He made a note with a gold pencil which had belonged to Richard. 'Chimneys,' he said, as he wrote the word down on his list. 'If only I could get on with it. This hanging around doesn't suit me.'

'Dr Kimpton said Gavin might linger a while, like his brother. A tough race, the Broomes, but Gavin was badly beaten around the head and his arm is in a bad way. Did you hear that Dr Kimpton is poorly today, and may not be able to come up? Don't you think we should call in a doctor from London? Gavin can afford it, if anyone can.'

Hugo pursed his lips. 'Let the beggar die in peace, I say. What's the point of having him pulled about and submitted to all sorts of painful treatment, just to be up to date? If Dr Kimpton takes to his bed, his nephew will see Gavin out. And you know what we decided about the nursing.'

He was sitting at the bureau which housed all Richard's papers. 'I want to show you Miss Chard's references, if I can find them.' He searched through various drawers, picked up the new Will, read it, smiled, and locked it away.

'That money my aunt spoke of,' he said, still searching. 'Fifty guineas. Didn't she say that Richard used to keep a float of that sum in one of these drawers, and that she hasn't touched it since his death? I could do with some ready cash, but I can't find it. Maud says she hasn't had it, either, so it must be one of the servants. I really don't wish to call in the police. The servants are upset enough as it is, what with Gavin's returning, and having to adjust to two new masters in such a short period of time ... Did you hear that the family ghost has been seen again in the cloisters? What nonsense will they think up next!'

'It will be Gavin's batman who is responsible for the rumours, I expect. He's half off his head with worry and fatigue, and sees murderers lurking in every shadow. A bad influence on the rest of the servants. No, I agree, we don't want to bring the police in. Fifty guineas may seem a great sum to you at the moment, but it is a trifle compared to what Maud will inherit. Be patient; you will soon have enough money to do whatever you wish with the Court.'

Hugo flushed. He had been working as secretary to an out-of-office politician when he had been summoned to Furze Court. His salary had not been large and he had hated the work. His letter of resignation had gone off in the post the day he arrived at the Court.

The clock struck eleven, and the gentlemen checked their watches.

'I asked them to meet us in the hall at eleven,' said Hugo. 'Shall we go? By the way, I'm having the agent repair that footbridge over the river. Nothing has been done to repair it since ... several of the struts are rotten. You can almost believe Gavin's story when you look at it.'

Mrs Broome was reclining on a settee in front of the fire in the Great Hall when they entered, and beside her sat Lady Amelia. Mr Manning paused to greet the ladies, but Hugo strode to the fireplace and stood with his back to it. The butler ushered Miss Chard into the room.

'Good morning, Miss Chard. My aunt has something to say to you. Aunt?'

'I'm so bad at explaining things, Hugo. Won't you ...?'

Hugo needed no further prompting. 'Miss Chard, as you may have perceived, we are in some difficulty as regards supervision of the sick-room. Mrs Broome is not well. Neither Miss Broome nor Miss Seld feel they can undertake the responsibility and, in short, we must ask you to take over the job until such time as ... well, you understand me, I think?'

CHAPTER THREE.

It was done, and she was to nurse a man suspected of murder. There was no getting out of it. She had tried to excuse herself on the grounds of having had no experience of nursing, but Lady Amelia and Mr Manning had overridden her protests. She was to have whichever members of the staff she chose to a.s.sist her. The butler and the housekeeper had already been informed that her authority in the sick-room was to be absolute. The remaining agency nurse was at her disposal, but the midwife had returned to the village. Her duties to Agnes would be suspended until after the funeral; yes, Mr Manning had actually put it into words. Until after the funeral. He added in a kindly way that he thought she had worked wonders with young Agnes, and that the Broomes were very lucky to have her.

There was nothing for Miss Chard to do but curtsey, and leave. At one and the same moment she wanted to burst into tears and resign her post, and to rush to the invalid's side. She was excited by her appointment, and feared the effect on her of close proximity to the sick man.

The Great Hall lay on the opposite side of the Court to the princ.i.p.al bedrooms. No one in his right senses would wish to cross the courtyard on such a day as this, with snow powdering the gra.s.s, so she turned to the right out of the Hall, to pa.s.s through the dining-room and music-room and thus gain the Oak Gallery on the south side of the Court.

Hugo Broome caught up with her as she entered the music-room. Servants were laying the table for lunch in the dining-room, but the music-room was deserted.

'The responsibility frightens you?' he asked, laying a large hand on her arm in familiar fas.h.i.+on. Frances shook her head. 'Ah, then you must have heard the rumours about my cousin? The inquest? The suspicions?'

'Such a thing ought not to make any difference to a nurse,' said Frances, thus betraying that it did, in fact, make a difference to her.

'Nevertheless, it is in the back of all our minds. I tell myself that perhaps a soldier might have looked on her death in a different light from a civilian. I have tried to find excuses for him, but ...' He looked around.

The place was deserted. He drew her to one of the oriel windows. 'We are placing a great burden on you, Miss Chard. I am well aware of that. And, believe me, you will not find us ungrateful.'

'I hope I will always do my duty.'

'Perhaps there may be something required of you more than just doing your duty.' His expression conveyed a deeper, sinister meaning. 'There has been quite enough scandal attached to my cousin's name already. For his sake, and for the sake of his family, we would like the close of his life to be seemly. He must be well tended on his death-bed. That goes without saying. Dr Kimpton will help you, if he is well enough; but if not, the young doctor will do the trick. Although somehow I feel you will not need to call on him.'

Frances was puzzled. Was her imagination playing her tricks? Did he mean to insinuate ...?

'You are intelligent, and resolute enough to do what has to be done.' Hugo's hand strayed up her arm to her shoulder. He cupped her chin in his hand, and tilted her face up to him. She could see his large white teeth coming closer. 'Too pretty to be a governess, aren't you? You've had some offers in your time, eh?'

She was afraid of this large man who seemed so sure of himself and of her. Would he kiss her? Surely not. Had she not seen with her own eyes that he was paying attentions to Maud? What would Maud think if she came in at that moment? Frances s.h.i.+vered. She thought she could guess exactly what Maud would say.

'You have no money of your own, I believe,' said Hugo. 'What a pity. With your background and education you ought to set up your own school one day. I am always looking out for possibilities of investing money - on a friend's behalf, of course. I am sure a school set up by you would repay any capital sum invested in it.'

She tried to laugh, to lighten the atmosphere. 'Oh, I have not been here long enough to justify ...'

'There are some services which can only be paid for with that kind of generosity. Think about it, Miss Chard.'

He left her, to return to the hall. Frances leaned against the window to recover. Had she understood him correctly? Had he tried to bribe her to ensure that Gavin Broome died under her hands? She remembered how Nurse Moon had been discovered lying on top of her patient, with a pillow over his face. Had Benson been right all along in suspecting foul play?

She pressed both hands to her temples and tried to think.

'Beg pardon, Miss,' someone said, close to her.

Frances jumped. One of the house-parlourmaids, little more than a child, stood before her. She had been crying. Frances' alarm dissolved, as it always would when her compa.s.sion was aroused.