The Companion of Lady Holmeshire (6 page)

Light from the doorway was dappled by leaves from the trees outside. The shifting windows were covered; some sunshine peeked in where the shutters failed to sit straight any longer. Two familiar benches faced what used to be a small altar—now just some toppled lumber.

But the sincere Emma felt alone with her God there and could take time to enjoy the quiet and to think of what was in store for her life. She had often extended her stay beyond the duration of the preaching and praying at the church across town, but in this new life she must return before the stamping horses and impatient carriage would take their leave.

On this occasion, Emma sat down and looked up for a moment. Thoughts of her good fortune and her life of comfort remained in her mind, and she nodded a peaceful smile. But questions crept in. She set her Bible to her side and laid her hands on her lap; she lifted one to run a finger across a seam of her glove. She removed the silken fabric and looked wistfully at the simple ring on her finger.

Where did it come from, she wondered, this thin circle of gold? Winnie had given it to her before sending her to Miss Wathem’s home, but had told her that it was her own ring, not the lady’s. That was all she had been told, and there was no further explanation. Could it have been from her mother? Who
were
her dear parents? Were they dead or alive? Why did they abandon her? Where had she come from, she wondered. “From the Squire’s doorstep,” was all she had been told.

The Squire’s doorstep. She closed her eyes, mystified, fingering the ring, and picturing herself—the infant in the basket with the white cotton blanket that Mrs. Carrington had kept for her. She held her breath. The ring...the doorstep...what sense did it make? Someone must know, but who would tell? She had questioned Winnie, but the lady had turned away quickly and did not reply. Emma opened her eyes, and they searched the dusty lines of the slate thoughtfully.

A chilly wind rushed in; it restored her, again, to the present, and she remembered her purpose for the morning. She sighed away the burdensome mysteries of the past, and she picked up her Bible and opened it.

She read aloud softly, “In the mountain of the height of Israel will I plant it; and it shall bring forth boughs, and bear fruit, and be a goodly cedar: and under it shall dwell all fowl of every wing; in the shadow of the branches thereof shall they dwell. And all the trees of the field shall know that I the LORD have brought down the high tree, have exalted the low tree, have dried up the green tree, and have made the dry tree to flourish: I the LORD have spoken and have done it.” She saw in it a comparison to her own life. “Dear Ezekiel,” she thought, “were you watching for my rise above my station? I was, to be sure, a most lowly tree, and I have been commended above myself!”

She spent some time praying and reading more in her Bible, comparing scriptures to scriptures, searching for understanding; she could not accept that “mystery” was the answer to her heartfelt questions. What might God’s written tidings reveal to her, for why were they written if not to be understood? She read on. Time whispered upon occasion, as she read, in case she cared to remember that it was soon to have passed. She finished reading and made notes in her mind, etching in the fruits of her efforts, and then closed her guidebook.

Strengthened, she gathered her things and went outside; pulling with her might to shut the door that bore up the chapel. She walked around it, thinking of its antiquity, but a gentle rain had begun, and the wind was whipping it into a mist. She had an eerie feeling of being watched. Looking around, she saw something move in the shadows, and fear gripped her. A tall ragged man staggered out of the trees toward her, looking intently at her and scowling, but then stood still. He was intoxicated, and would have approached her but for having had a drink too many. She was frightened. She turned and hurriedly wove her way through the village, back toward the security of the sound of people’s choral voices. She paused across the bridge from the church to look behind her. He had not followed.

A shivering little boy, about 6 years old, approached her. “Ma’am,” he said. “Do you need some candles?”

“
Why are you not at church, little man?”

“
I must work, ma’am. I work in the candle shop.” She noticed that the shop had been recently whitened, and all the window glass had been replaced. The building was surrounded by lovely new plants, but this little boy was worn.

“
On Sunday morning?” she despaired.

“
Every day, ma’am. Then I can have some supper!” He looked up with hopeful eyes.

“
Thank you, child. I do not need candles. This money is just for you.” Emma gave the boy a florin and told him to have Mrs. Amberton make him a warm jacket. “Do not tell anyone you have some money, now, just give it to her. Tell her to make the coat big enough for two winters. She will use good thick wool. And you wear the coat, now; you wear it, so that you do not catch your death! And go indoors, where you are safe.” He smiled broadly and slipped the coin into his pocket and a candle into hers. Then, unsure of this display of manners, he ran away.

The singing had stopped, and the church garden would soon be inhabited by the living. Emma crossed the bridge. As she neared the church, she looked sadly over the ancient mossy gravestones in the place where Mrs. Carrington now peacefully slept. Some stones were large and notable; others were mere nameplates. Some names were blurred with age, and others were sharp and clear—“Richard James,” “Hilda Prichert,” “A Young Traveler.”

Eventually, people came ambling out of the church, shaking the hand of the priest and chatting about the cold breezes and the appearance of daffodils. She had known and loved these people all her life. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Teak, with him leaning on a stick, came out and smiled. The Missus had once made a warm blanket for Emma’s childhood bed. Lovely Lydia Jansby, the schoolmistress, waved proudly at her Emma. The tavern keeper, Mr. Bealle, bowed his head to her, and on his arm was the shroud maker, the widow, Mrs. Perry. “Emma, you do have your burial society subscription, do you not? But why would you need that now? The Countess will gladly bury you!” Following behind her, with a hand on her shoulder, was Violet Benton, her sister, maker of mourning wear. “We never miss church, Miss Emma, and you should be here, too!” Business was always good, should they keep themselves close to the church.

Mr. Seely, a farmworker whose Sunday best was giving out, approached Emma. “There was a man here looking for you, asking everyone about you. A tall lanky man with a jutting jaw. His clothes had holes; his shoes were no better than mine. Did not give me his name.”

Emma was puzzled, realizing now that the man was indeed intending to approach her. “I believe that I saw him myself! I do not know who he would be! I cannot imagine,” she replied, as she reflected anxiously.

“
I told him you do not come here. I did not tell him where you were; I did not like the look of him. Here he was drunk on Sunday morning!”

“
Thank you, sir, thank you. I am sure you did the right thing.”

Emma was uneasy; had someone in this trusting village carelessly told him where she was? Who was he? What did he want? She dwelt on the matter until the time came to leave. It was not someone she knew, she thought, nor did Mr. Seely know him. He was not from Holmeshire. How strange, for she did not know anyone from any other place except for Miss Wathem, her elderly friend, and a few tutors! She mentioned it to Winnie, expecting to be comforted and told not to worry, but her disquieting expression showed far more alarm than Emma expected.

“
You must not go to the chapel alone any longer! You must stay with us!”

The footman’s presence interrupted and informed Winifred of the arrival of the carriage. The bishop approached, and she told him that she had concerns to tend and must decline the invitation he had extended. “But do send advance notice and we will be happy to schedule a visit to your lovely manor,” she acquiesced.

The family mounted their carriage after the appropriate waving and accepting of homage. The horses turned and began the task of returning the family to their home. “Take it slowly,” Wills yelled to the driver, “I want to see my childhood playgrounds on the way. I am thinking of going out to play this afternoon.” He raised his eyebrows at the tyke beside him as if to entice him along.

“
Are you hungry, Emma?” Winnie asked, “Cook will have left some good things for us. And Barreby will be fretting until he can serve it.” Sundays were unusual; nobody was polishing anything. Most were gone visiting family or whiling the day away; a few would have followers in for a rewarmed, but gracious, supper. Barreby did not trust people from outside in the house, but he had been told to allow friends and family of the servants downstairs on Sundays. “And how is he taking to receiving orders from you, Emma?”

“
He could not be more pleased than to have another order.”

“
Lovely. Just as I would have it.”

Wills pointed out an ancient oak that he had climbed many times, even as a youth; Emma remembered furtively, fondly watching him, but hoped that the memory did not show on her face. Boulders and primroses and a rainbow all took their turns at being the focus of conversation, and the family was beaming with adulations when they came around the last bend. “And lastly, my ladder!” Wills pointed out as they passed his forsaken tree house. “Soon, Nick, you will be man enough to climb up to Kingdom Come yourself. I named it so, as it seemed so far away when I was a boy!”

Barreby had fled the church in a two-seated gig at the last chord of the organ and, along with a footman, was representing the absent members of the staff at the entrance, stiff and polished, chin in the air. Winnie spoke as she climbed the steps, “Come to me in the Sitting Room when you can, Barreby.”

“
All seems to be well, ma’am,” he reported as she passed through the door. She had allowed him to think so for the sake of the morning’s observances. However, besides Emma’s stalker, there was another matter. Once everyone was dismantled and their winter wrappings taken away, he strode in to meet her.

"Barreby, now, do not become upset, but I have something I would like you to watch for. My emerald and sapphire bracelet is missing. It disappeared this morning. I cannot imagine what has happened to it.”

“
Ma’am!” He was horrified. “I am so sorry! I will make sure it is found quickly and the thief punished!” To be sure, the poor man would not sleep well until it was found.

“
Be careful, Barreby. I do not care to have anyone accused of taking it without proof. It could be an accidental matter, after all.” She hid her fears under a trusting face, as she had for the morning.

“
Ma’am!” His face gave away that he realized the truth of it. The jewelry was too well cared for to have just disappeared. Normally under lock and key, it had been set out for Winnie to wear to church. Elizabeth had been up and down the stairs a few times, and Winnie had meandered around her suite from room to room, leaving the bracelet unattended, but it should have remained where it had been placed. When the time had arrived to place it on Winnie’s arm, it was strangely gone.

“
I trust my staff, you know. Elizabeth has been impeccably honest, and she recommended her sister to me without reservation. The dear girl was never in any kind of trouble in the town. No housemaid was in the room during that time, as far as I know. And we both know it was not Emma. Why would she take it? Just be aware, and watch for any hint of the bracelet.”

He bowed and started to leave the room in great distress. Winnie stopped him. “Nobody is to hear of this. At least not until I give leave.” As he left, she looked out the window, despairing.

~
Chapter 4~

The London Season; A First for Emma

Sounds of London’s clattering horses, the noxious smells of sewer and industry and the yells of a broom boy rose into the shadows of an ancient room in Bermondsey. Tallow candles flickered by day, their cost having spared many generations in the home the expense of the Window Tax.

But what did the young woman care about the lack of a window? She was out working by day. The darkness of the room somewhat hid the tattered condition of stacked blankets and cracks in the washing bowl. She hung her husband’s wet trousers across the living space, their one room in a moldering house, while he dealt himself a hand of solitaire under a tallow candle on a scratched table. The cards were bright and new, a gift from his wife.

Up the stairs and into the room strode Benedict Scott, the gaunt, lantern-jawed man, and their few weeks of privacy ended. “They are on their way into town,” he reported to his son. “I went to ‘er village and asked around about ‘er, and it seems as though nobody knows anything at all about this. It was a long, expensive trip for nothing! And now my money’s gone. All of it! A waste of time. A waste of money. But if I asked more questions about ‘er, they woulda told ‘em.”

“
We’ll just ‘av ta bide our time, Papa. We can’t do anything right now, like I told you.” Charles, about twenty-five years of age, was always pleased to take things slowly. But in this matter, he was right.

“
I just ‘av ta figure out what we can do. I’m not wanting to wait on it.”

“
We ‘av plenty of time for it! Sit down and play me.” He gathered up his cards and shuffled. “Lucy, get Papa some of that soup.”

“
I need to know more of the law,” the older man grumbled. “I guess I’ll ‘av to find the money for a solicitor!” Lucy quietly scraped her money off a sideboard, into her apron’s pocket, and brought the potato stew.