Silent Night (2 page)

The Third Chapter

Call up the butler of this house,
Put on his golden
ring;
Let him bring us up a glass of beer,
And better we shall
sing.

“Here We Come A-Wassailing”
Traditional
English Carol

S
ettling into the Abbey was only marginally
less demanding than the Peninsular Campaign. The staff turned out to greet us
and it took every last one of them to shift the bags and boxes and cages and
baskets from our carriage and the baggage wagon into the Abbey. Built by
Cistercians, it was austerely beautiful and enviably spacious as long as one did
not mind the occasional ghost. Portia and her assorted pets—she had brought not
only Puggy but his greyhound wife, Florence, and an assortment of their
ill-begotten pups—took her old room off the picture gallery while Jane the
Younger and her nanny were whisked away to the nursery floor. Brisbane and I and
our menagerie were given the Jubilee Tower chamber, a rather gorgeous room he
had occupied during his only previous stay. It was situated just over the chapel
and connected to the old belfry via the bachelors’ wing.

Brisbane looked around as the door closed behind us.

“At least it is removed from the rest of the place,” I soothed.
“We shall have some privacy.”

“And hopefully rather fewer dead bodies than last time.” If he
was feeling a trifle waspish, I could not blame him. I had promised him a
peaceful retreat to the Rookery and instead we would spend the next fortnight
nestled rather too firmly in the bosom of my tempestuous family.

Just then the door opened and my maid, Morag, entered. “It’s
about time you’ve come. I take you’ve seen the Rookery? His lordship says it
weren’t even a very strong wind brought that oak down last night. It were rotted
through and through.” Since Morag is never happier than when disaster strikes,
she was smiling.

“I saw. I presume you and Aquinas have both been given lodgings
here for the duration?”

“Aye. And Mr. Aquinas has been given the task of butlering for
the Abbey as Mr. Hoots is having a funny turn.”

“Hoots is unwell?” That was not entirely unusual. Hoots had
always been prone to dramatic ailments, usually coinciding neatly with extra
work.

“His mind’s slipped a cog. Claiming to be Napoleon, he is.
Locked himself belowstairs with a bottle of the earl’s best Armagnac. Won’t come
out until Wellington surrenders, he says, and that leaves Mr. Aquinas to do all
the organizing of the household.”

I sat down and put my fingertips to my temples, rubbing hard.
“We have one fallen tree, one destroyed Rookery, one delusional butler and no
good brandy. Is that what you are telling me?”

“And the cook’s down with piles and more than half the staff
are suffering from catarrh,” she added maliciously.

I looked to Brisbane, who was smiling broadly. “God bless us,
everyone,” he said, spreading his arms wide.

* * *

The situation was rather worse than Morag had described.
Hoots had taken not just a bottle of Armagnac but
all
the decent liquor and locked it up in his room along with the
keys to the silver, the wine cellar and the pantry. The cook was indeed down
with piles, but the rest of the staff had succumbed to a rather virulent cold
that left them wheezing and hacking in various corners of the house. A few had
taken to their beds but the rest dragged about, sniffling moistly into
unspeakably sodden handkerchiefs. Father had given Aquinas carte blanche to
manage the house until Hoots came around. No one had yet wrested the keys from
Hoots, so dinner the first night consisted of bottles of beer from the village
pub and bread toasted over the drawing room fire. Portia took hers to the
nursery to eat with Jane the Younger while the rest of us made an impromptu
party around the fireplace in the vast great hall.

Impromptu and awkward. Father, sunk in a sort of black gloom,
said scarcely a dozen words, and Aunt Hermia—Father’s younger sister and the
nearest thing we children had to a mother—struggled to fill the silences. I
noticed none of the usual decorations had been hung, and I wondered if Father’s
grim mood was a result of the fact that so few of us would be present for
Christmas. No matter, I decided. He would come round as soon as everyone
gathered for Twelfth Night.

I smiled at the footman who came to poke up the fire. A local
lad, he had been with the family a number of years and, like all the footmen at
Bellmont, was called William regardless of his real name. This one was William
IV.

“Hello, William.” He gave me a courteous bow but did not
smile.

“Is everything well with you and your family?”

“Yes, my lady. Thank you for asking.”

He withdrew at once and I turned to Aunt Hermia. “What ails
William? He has always been such a pleasant, chatty fellow.”

She shrugged. “Heaven help me if I know.”

“He isn’t holding a grudge about what happened the last time is
he?” I ventured. “I mean, we did apologise about him being
poisoned.”
3

“He might still have died,” Father countered, levelling an
accusatory gaze at Brisbane. “I seem to remember someone having to force the
poor boy to regurgi—”

“That is quite enough, Hector. And you’ve got it very wrong,”
Aunt Hermia cut in sharply before Father could continue. “The other victims
required Brisbane’s interventions. William slept it off. He woke with nothing
more significant than a towering headache.” She turned back to me. “He has been
out of sorts for days now, as have most of the staff. So many are out with
illness, the rest have worked doubly hard to carry on. We cannot seem to find
replacements in Blessingstoke.” She broke off suddenly, darting a quick glance
to my father.

Brisbane noted it. He turned to Aunt Hermia. “You are having
troubles with the locals? But you have always hired in from the village.”

“Never again,” Father thundered. “I will not have a pack of
cowardly, pudding-hearted—”

Aunt Hermia raised a hand. “That will
do
, Hector.” She spoke to Brisbane. “But he is not wrong. In the
last few days, it has become impossible to entice them to work at the
Abbey.”

“What reason do they give?” Brisbane enquired. I smiled to
myself. He regularly worked on behalf of her Majesty’s government in essential
and secretive ways, and yet he could take a healthy interest in domestic
dramas.

“They say the place is haunted!” Father’s expression was
disgusted.

“It has always been haunted,” I protested. “Everyone knows
that.”

“That is precisely the point,” he returned. “We have always had
our share of ghosts and they’ve always worked here in spite of it.”

“What has changed?” Brisbane asked, his black gaze thoughtful
as it rested on the contents of his glass.

“There has been a fresh sighting inside the Abbey,” Aunt Hermia
replied. “When the staff fell ill, I brought in a few new maids from the
village. One of them saw a ghost on the servants’ stair and ran screaming home
in the middle of the night. She has the busiest tongue in the village. They
cannot help they are superstitious, Hector,” she added. “They haven’t the
benefit of our education.”

He snorted by way of reply. Brisbane said nothing, and I knew
we were both thinking of our previous investigation at the Abbey. A ghost had
figured prominently in that adventure.

Father turned abruptly to Brisbane. “I suppose you are still
capering about in the private enquiry business?”

Before Brisbane could reply, Aunt Hermia jumped up and took a
crystal dish from the mantel. “Brisbane, you must try these sweetmeats. The
stillroom maid and I concocted them, and I would know if I had too heavy a hand
with the rosewater.”

Brisbane, ever courteous where ladies were concerned, took one
while I breathed out a small sigh that the moment had been got past. Father and
Brisbane had quarrelled dreadfully during our last investigation, largely over
my safety, and hard words had been spoken. I had hoped they had been forgot, but
Father apparently still nursed a grudge, as evidenced by his pointed remarks
towards my husband. I could not entirely blame him. I had suffered considerable
injuries at the conclusion of the case—through my own rash actions, to be
sure—and Father and Brisbane had almost taken each other apart in their worry
and despair. I smiled brightly from one to the other, but Father had lapsed into
his chair, glowering, while Brisbane merely sat, graceful and lethal as a
panther as he regarded Father with his inscrutable, witch-black eyes. I sighed.
It was going to be a very long holiday indeed.

“I think I should do something to cheer Father up,” I told
Brisbane later that evening as we prepared for bed.

Brisbane said nothing, but I heard the thud as a boot hit the
floor.

“Aunt Hermia believes he is feeling a trifle downcast that so
many of the family shan’t be here. Most of the children are keeping Christmas at
home and only coming for the revels. It will be Plum and Portia and us for
Christmas,” I said. “Benedick will come up from the Home Farm with his family,
but that still makes only half of us.” The other boot hit the floor and I went
on. “I thought of asking a special guest, someone Father would really enjoy
seeing.”

Brisbane gave a drawn-out sigh. “Julia, don’t meddle.”

“It is not meddling! It is putting something right,” I said
stubbornly. “Father is devoted to Hortense. He is just too daft to do anything
about it.”

“The situation is rather complicated,” Brisbane pointed out. He
rose and began to strip off his clothing whilst I mused on the subject of the
lovely and fragrant Hortense de Bellefleur, known to her friends and intimates
as Fleur.

“I suppose it does make things rather awkward that you have
enjoyed the lady’s favours,” I admitted. “Still, that was twenty years ago! And
I know you think of her rather as a devoted aunt than anything more—” He quirked
up his brow in enquiry. “Than anything more fervent,” I finished, my cheeks
uncommonly warm. “If I have no quarrel with her on that score, Father
oughtn’t.”

“You are not a man,” Brisbane reminded me. He unwound his
neckcloth and set to work on his collar.

“Does that make a difference?” I bent my head to unpin his
cuffs.

“It might.” He trailed a fingertip along the lace at my
décolletage. “Do you think I would be accommodating to any man who had shared
your bed?”

“You knew the only man who shared my bed,” I reminded him. “He
died in your
arms.”
4

The finger dipped lower and I gave a little shiver. “And if he
hadn’t, I would have happily strangled him to put him out of the way.”

I slapped lightly at his hand. “You would not. You are far too
devoted to justice to kill a man without reason.”

“I am devoted to you,” he said, bending his head low and
pressing his lips to my neck. His hand resumed its interesting business with my
neckline and this time I let him. “And it would have been justice to put Edward
Grey out of the way. He did not deserve you.”

“And you do?” The words were breathless, coming out on a
gasp.

“Let me show you.” I turned my face up to his and he began to
kiss me.

After a few blissful moments, he drew back suddenly with a
sharp oath. “What the devil? Julia,” he said patiently, “will you kindly remove
that dormouse from your décolletage? There is only room for one of us in there
and I refuse to share.”

I hurried to pull the little creature out of my garment. I put
him into his basket, bidding him goodnight as he curled obligingly into a
restful slumber and closed his black teardrop eyes.

“I am sorry,” I said, returning to Brisbane’s arms. “Let me
make it up to you.”

The Fourth Chapter

Lo, how a rose e’er blooming
From tender stem hath sprung!

“Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming”
Traditional English Carol

A
fter tea the next afternoon I found Aunt Hermia giving instructions to the stillroom maid.

“I know there is far too much to do with so many down with colds, but we simply must prepare the oranges for marmalade before they decay around us.”

The maid had nothing of the usual deference about her, but she did bob a curtsey to us before turning to the masses of oranges heaped in baskets upon the worktable.

“Whittle and Wee Ned have been busy in the hothouse. I don’t remember ever seeing quite so many oranges before,” I said.

“Julia,” Aunt Hermia said with a touch of relief. “I must go and look in on Hoots now he’s calmed down. I wonder if you would mind organising Rose. She is quite competent, but she has only been here a few months and is new to the stillroom. It would be such a help since you know where everything is. She will be preparing the oranges for marmalade. You have seen it done often enough to guide her.”

“Of course. Is there anything else I can do?” I looked at her meaningfully and she sighed.

“No, my dear. It’s just that everything seems so difficult this year, what with your father’s black mood—” She broke off. It was unlike her to offer criticism of him on any matter. She was deeply conscious of the fact that she owed her comfortable place in our home to his good graces, but beyond that she was an affectionate younger sister who worshipped her eldest brother. She went on. “The staff troubles and the sickness have taken their toll upon everyone. And cook will not be pleased when I tell her the Christmas menu has to be changed—”

“What is the trouble with the Christmas menu? We always have suckling pig for the centrepiece.”

Her comely face flushed. “Your Uncle Fly was unwell last week and let his curate deliver the sermon. Unfortunately, the young man is afflicted with vegetarianism.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Indeed. And as a consequence, Tarquin and Perdita have protested the serving of meat, most particularly suckling pig, at our Christmas table.”

I smothered a laugh. An aunt was not supposed to play favourites, but I had a very soft spot for my brother Benedick’s two eldest children. “What does Benedick say?”

She flapped a hand. “You know Benedick. He likes them to express themselves and think freely, but he has good enough manners to tell them they will eat what they are served when guests are here or they can stay at the Home Farm with bread and milk for their Christmas dinner.”

“But you mean to change the menu for them anyway?” I gave her a smiling glance and she nipped my arm lightly with her fingers.

“Do not give me such cheek!” she countered with a smile. “Yes, I am far too obliging, but they are the nearest thing to grandchildren I shall ever have. And Christmas is a festival for the little ones, too. It would be different if we locked them up in the nursery and feasted without them. I cannot bear the notion of long faces at the table when they see the beast brought in with an apple in its mouth and a wreath of holly around its neck.”

“What will you serve in its place? Nut loaf?”

“Heavens, no. There will be the usual venison and goose, and they will simply have to accept it. And there will be suckling pig, but I will have it nicely carved before it reaches the table. I have already spoken to Aquinas and he is prepared to do the deed in the butler’s pantry. I thought perhaps if it did not look quite so much like a piglet, the children might not object to slices of roast pork on their plates.”

I thought she was entirely mistaken upon the point, but I hastened to encourage her. “It sounds an excellent plan.”

She ought to have been reassured, but instead I saw she was worrying at her rings. Her favourite was a pretty coral piece she had kept since girlhood, and it was her habit to turn it round her finger when she was agitated. I took her hand in mine and gave it a squeeze.

“Do not be so troubled. ’Tis the season of goodwill and peace on earth. Everything will be alright, you’ll see—” I broke off. “Where is your ring? The little coral one?”

Her finger was cool and empty. She pulled a rueful face. “That is another of my troubles. I cannot find it. I daresay I am growing absent-minded in my dotage.”

She squared her shoulders, her manner brisk. “Now, show Rose what to do and I will get on with the rest, alright, dearest?”

Her smile did not quite reach her eyes, and I noticed the piercing look she gave Rose as she left. It was one of speculation.

* * *

Rose and I worked together to trim the skins of the oranges into long, fragrant strips of peel to be chopped for the marmalade. My hands grew messy with the juice and the knife slipped, stabbing me lightly in the thumb.

“Bother!” I sucked at the small wound while Rose hastened to take the knife.

“Here, my lady. You don’t want to fuss with that. My hands are used to such rough things. You’ll want to keep yours nice and soft.”

I gave her a grateful look. “That is very kind of you, Rose. You are not from Blessingstoke.” It was not a question.

She widened her eyes, and I realised she was probably younger than I had thought. There was something careworn about her that had made her seem older. Her face in repose was not precisely mournful, but nostalgic rather, as if she spent much time thinking of faraway things. I regretted leaving my photographic equipment back in London. She would have made an excellent subject, perhaps robed as Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott, looking out from the tower upon her own doom with resignation.

“No, my lady. I’m from London.”

The pieces fell swiftly into place. Aunt Hermia ran a refuge in Whitechapel for the poor souls who plied the oldest trade. She had them taught to read and to write, and they were trained up as domestic or factory workers according to their preferences and aptitudes.

“Yes, my lady, I come from Lady Hermia’s place,” she said suddenly. She was neither apologetic nor defiant. She stated the words plainly.

“I hope you found it worthwhile,” I said. Rose had the marmalade oranges firmly in hand, freeing me for one of my favourite tasks of the season. To the side of the worktable sat the enormous earthenware crock Aunt Hermia used for making her special seasonal potpourri. Whether Father was in a mood to celebrate the season or not, I wanted the fragrance of the traditional potpourri we always mixed to scent the air.

“I did. I wanted out of it, you know. I didn’t go on the game because I was born to it. My mother was not a whore and it was not the life for me.”

I said nothing but lifted off the lid of the crock and inspected the contents. Some weeks before Aunt Hermia would have packed it with layers of dried rose petals and lavender. The flowers would be covered with salt and brandy and pressed with a weighted plate to sit quietly, fermenting away. After a fortnight, the result was a moist cake of sorts.

“What’s that then?” Rose asked, coming away from her oranges to peer into the crock.

“It is potpourri, a very old Elizabethan recipe,” I told her. “It makes a heavenly scent, but because it is moist it does not look very inviting. When it is finished it will go into those enormous jars on the hearth in the great hall.” I showed her how to crumble the cake into bits in her fingers. She sniffed at her hands and closed her eyes.

“That’s lovely, that is.”

“It will be lovelier still,” I promised. I went to the neatly organised shelves and began to take down large glass bottles of spices. “You were telling me about your family.”

At this prompting she returned to her story and her marmalade oranges. “We were poor, you see. And I had brothers and sisters, seven of them, all older, working in the worst sorts of factories. They won’t make old bones because they haven’t good food or fresh air. And I wanted better for myself. So I thought lying on my back would be a way to make easy money.”

I took great handfuls of dried orange peel and scattered them over the mixture in the crock. “Somehow I doubt it is ever really easy money.”

She gave a sharp, barking laugh. “Right you are, my lady. I don’t know who I hated more—them or me. The worst of it wasn’t the doing. You’d think it was, but you’d be wrong. The worst of it was the way they looked right through me, as if I wasn’t there. As if I were less than human.”

Next I flung in orrisroot, scattering the powder over the damp, crumbling flowers.

“But I kept at it because the money was alright. I worked at a bawdy house for a while and that was a good time for me. There was a fellow at the door to cosh the men who got rough or didn’t pay. Trouble was he liked to knock us about, too. And I wouldn’t stand for it. So I was chucked out, back into the streets with my one good dress and my hat with velvet roses.”

I held up a large dried rose and she laughed again. “Bigger, my lady. These roses were the size of a plate! The prettiest pink velvet you ever did see. I wanted it because of my name. Silly, I reckon now. But that hat made me feel like a proper lady on my worst days.”

I broke several cinnamon sticks into Aunt Hermia’s favourite mortar, grinding them to powder with a pestle.

“And then the troubles came last year. We were afraid even to walk out after dark, and how were we supposed to make any money if we cowered inside?”

I thought of the terrible months that Jack the Ripper had stalked the district of Whitechapel, of the terror he had inflicted and how unspeakable it must have been to go abroad in the night knowing such a monster lurked in the shadowy streets.

“I nearly starved, I did. But I forced myself to go out and find work—until the last, the one he...well, I’m sure you know what he did to her.” I did. The newspapers had related the story of her mutilations in lurid detail. Rose went on, dreamily. “She had the room next to mine. It might have been me, but I was out that night. I had gone out in my second best hat. I never heard a word about it until the next morning. And I never went back. Not even to get my beautiful hat with the pink velvet roses. I was that afraid. Instead I walked straight into Lady Hermia’s refuge and applied to be reformed.”

“How did you come to be here?” The powdered cinnamon went into the mixture, and I grated fresh nutmeg on top, finishing with a flourish of fresh gingerroot.

Rose started to shrug then caught herself, clearly remembering her training that a maid ought to be respectful at all times—training Morag forgot often enough. “I haven’t found a place that suits me yet. I know I ought to make up my mind to be quiet and grateful, but the truth is, my lady, I want to have a sympathy with the people I must live with. I know I’ve been badly spoilt, but there it is. I want to work for folk who are worth serving, and I don’t mind saying that there are plenty who are not. I would do the foulest job and count myself happy if I liked the family.”

Her mouth had a stubborn cast, and I liked her in spite of it. She was every bit as bossy as my own maid, Morag, and I had no doubt she would make someone a fine maid. But then I recalled Aunt Hermia’s misplaced ring and the anxious look she had thrown at Rose, and I wondered.

I gave the potpourri a last stir, staring regretfully into the crock. “It needs a last baptism of brandy to bring it all together,” I told her. “I wonder if Hoots left any when he went off to refight Waterloo.”

Just then William appeared, fairly bounding through the doorway.

“Rose, I just wondered—” He broke off sharply upon seeing me. “My lady! I beg your pardon. I did not know you were here.”

“I’m sure,” I said mildly. Rose looked cool and remote as a duchess as she gave a lazy stir to the chopped oranges.

“William, if you’ve a minute, would you please ask Mr. Aquinas for the brandy for Lady Julia to finish the potpourri now Mr. Hoots has given up the keys?” she enquired.

He flushed deeply. “I will.”

“Thank you, William,” she said, inclining her head graciously.

He turned, tripping over the step as he fled. I said nothing, and neither did Rose. She merely peered into her bowl of oranges. “I think they look quite tasty, don’t you, my lady?”

Together we finished preparing the marmalade and potpourri, and on impulse I fished a handkerchief out of my pocket. I scooped a handful of the damply fragrant concoction into it and tied up the ends with a bit of ribbon.

“There, now you have something to give you good cheer during the season.”

She took it, turning over the little bundle with wide eyes.

“You’ve made me a present.”

“A trifle, you needn’t worry. I do not want the handkerchief back.”

She held on to the sachet so tightly I feared it would be crushed.

“I do like pretty things.”