Carola Dunn (6 page)

“Very good, sir.” The butler bowed impassively but Miles had caught a glimpse of both curiosity and relief in his face. No doubt the man had expected Sir Neville to be his new master-- and had feared to find Mrs Euphemia Chidwell as his mistress. “I shall endeavour to give satisfaction,” he continued, and awaited orders.

“I’m sure you will, Snodgrass,” said Miles. “We’ll have breakfast for two, in here, if you please. Miss Courtenay, what would you like?”

Drooping in her seat, she looked at him blankly. The poor girl was too weary to make even so simple a decision.

“Bacon and eggs?” he suggested. “Toast? Tea?”

She nodded. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll have cold meat, any kind but plenty of it, muffins if you have them, and ale. Will you join us, sir?” he asked the lawyer.

“Most kind.” Mr Harwood’s eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “A cup of coffee would not come amiss, and perhaps a muffin. Though I have already broken my fast, I must confess I am particularly partial to a toasted muffin with marmalade.” He patted his round belly lovingly.

“I daresay you need to recruit your strength after this morning’s exertions,” Miles commiserated. “That will be all for now, thank you, Snodgrass.”

“Very good, sir.” The butler turned to depart.

“Wait,” said Miss Wingate. “Snodgrass, have chambers been prepared for myself and Mr Courtenay?”

“I believe not, miss, no instructions having been received.” He hesitated. “Mr Neville--Sir Neville, I should say--and her ladyship have moved into the best bedchamber, miss. And Mrs Chidwell into the second best and...”

“And so on down the line, I take it,” said Miles impatiently. “As Sir Barnabas’s granddaughter, Miss Wingrave is entitled to the best room.”

“Oh no, I would not put anyone out. In truth, I care not where I sleep so long as there is a bed.”

Miles eyed her with exasperation. Evidently it was not going to be easy to teach the chit to stand up for her rights, though she had at least overcome her qualms about addressing the butler.

However, for the moment he gave in. “Fit us in where you can,” he told Snodgrass and dismissed him with a wave. As the door closed, he turned back to Mr Harwood. “Two questions, sir. First, as we are joint heirs, when Miss Wingate and I come to cuffs, who prevails?”

“I never come to cuffs with anyone!”

He grinned at her indignation. “Poorly phrased. I beg your pardon. Shall we say, on the doubtless rare occasions when we disagree.”

“Er-hem.” The lawyer cleared his throat diffidently. “In cases where you are unable to reach a compromise, I am appointed adjudicator. I shall endeavour to be impartial.”

“I’m sure you will, sir. Secondly, am I correct in supposing that one of the limits on our authority is that we cannot eject our unwanted guests from the manor?”

“You are, Mr Courtenay. I regret to say, you are. For six months, or until the matter is otherwise finally settled, the Philpotts, Mrs Chidwell and her sister, and Mr Reece are entitled to remain here. They will not receive their bequests until then.”

Miles groaned. “I was afraid of that.”

“And I am obliged to stay,” Mr Harwood apologized.

“We don’t mind that a bit,” said Miss Wingate at once, “do we, Mr Courtenay?”

“Not a bit. But will it not disrupt your business, sir?”

“My son does most of the business these days. What little I still handle--old clients, you know--I can carry on here, if I may use this room occasionally.”

“Of course,” Miles assured him. “We shall be glad to have you in the house. We count on you to see fair play.”

Mr Harwood flushed with pleasure. “I shall do my best,” he promised. “I must approve every expenditure, you know, but I shall not quibble overmuch.”

“I take it Sir Barnabas expected us to try to feather our nests and then ignore his dictates. Are you also to judge whether we meet or fail his requirements?”

The lawyer’s cheeks turned still pinker, and he fussed with his papers. “I am, but I assure you I shall demand absolute proof of...er-hem...of misbehaviour. Mere report will not suffice.”

“You’ll have to catch us
in flagrante delicto
, in fact,” said Miles dryly.

“Us!” exclaimed Miss Wingate, with a baleful look. “You may speak for yourself, sir. I have not the slightest intention of misbehaving, with or without witnesses.”

The door opened and two footmen came in with laden trays, which they set on the long table. Unseen, Sir Barnabas slipped in behind them. Not that he needed an open door, but creeping through keyholes was undignified and uncomfortable, and wafting through walls hard work and as painful as being sat upon. Ghosthood presented its own special difficulties.

He had left the library with the others, eager to hear how they planned to deal with what Effie described as the “shocking situation.”

They had gathered in the breakfast room, where the usual princely spread was laid out on the sideboard. During his lifetime, breakfast had been served at eight, and latecomers went hungry. Since his death, only Sophie and Matilda had risen so early, Aubrey sometimes not leaving his chamber till noon. The reading of the Will had rousted the counter-coxcomb out--and much good it had done him.

He sat now with his usual breakfast of dry toast and weak China tea. “It will scarce keep me in coats,” he moaned. “How can I keep up a decent appearance on...”

“Coats!” said Matilda. “You have enough coats to last a lifetime. How am I to hunt with only one mount?”

“My poor children,” wailed their mother, dabbing her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I shall sell the topazes and divide the money between you. I’m sure I shall never wear them after your uncle was so monstrous insulting.”

Sir Barnabas grinned.

His brother scowled. “Better worry about estates, not insults. What the deuce was he about, leaving Addlescombe away from the baronetcy? There have been Philpotts at Addlescombe for two hundred years.”

“At least you have the use of the house in Bath, rent-free and fully furnished,” Raymond Reece observed sourly. “How am I supposed to refurbish the vicarage decently on ten pounds?”

“Bath?” The awful truth dawned on Matilda, who had been too wrapped up in her own woes to take in her family’s exile from Dorset. “I can’t live in Bath. It’s much too far to hunt with the Blackmoor Vale!”

“Fiddlesticks!” snapped Euphemia, driven to postpone the consumption of the second half of her plateful of devilled kidneys, ham, eggs, and buttered rolls. “If you will all cease your useless laments for a moment, we can decide how to contrive that these intruders fail to inherit, as Cousin Barnabas clearly intended.”

“Oh no,” Sophie protested, her round face pink with agitation at her daring in contradicting her sister. “Surely Cousin Barnabas
expected
the poor dears to fail, not
intended
.”

“It’s all one,” said Euphemia, exasperated. “Barnabas could never abide having his opinions refuted, so it is our duty to ensure that they shall not be. Don’t meddle where you don’t understand, Sophie.”

“I beg your pardon, Effie,” murmured the crestfallen little lady.

A pang shot through the spot where Sir Barnabas’s heart had once resided. He ignored it. In life he had allowed the memory of his long-ago grievance to stop him intervening in Sophronia’s behalf. It was too late now.

“For a start,” Euphemia continued, “We cannot permit Miles Courtenay and that cozening actress to indulge their lecherous natures undetected. One of us must be with them every minute of every day.”

“And night,” put in Neville. “We shall have to set a watch on their chamber doors.”

Fools!
stormed Sir Barnabas, unheard. Nothing could be better calculated to keep Miles and Nerissa out of each other’s arms and beds than knowing themselves observed.

Perhaps Raymond somehow picked up his thoughts, for he objected, “They will not get up to any mischief if someone is always with them. We need to keep them under surveillance without their knowledge.”

“Whenever possible,” Neville agreed dubiously.

“Only when they are together,” his wife ventured to suggest.

“Don’t be a ninny, Jane,” said Euphemia. “Young Courtenay may prefer actresses but I daresay he will not turn up his nose at dairymaids and village wenches.”

“And actresses prefer wealthy protectors,” Raymond informed them--to Sir Barnabas’s disgust: a country parson should know nothing of such matters--”but we cannot risk Miss Wingate taking a fancy to some handsome yokel without our knowledge. We must keep as constant a watch as possible.”

“Well, I can’t spare much time for spying,” said Matilda. “We’re in the middle of cubbing and it’s only a month till the Blackmore Vale’s first meet of the season.”

“Don’t be so selfish, Mattie,” whined Aubrey. “It’s not only your future at stake. If I’m not to inherit Addlescombe one day, we’ll both go home by beggar’s bush.”

“One of you had best marry a fortune,” Euphemia advised contemptuously, then paused with an arrested air. “Good gracious, why did I not think of it sooner? Aubrey, you must marry Nerissa!”

“I don’t wish to marry anyone, let alone a fallen woman. Besides, I’m her uncle or something.”

“Fiddlesticks--merely a first cousin once removed, a perfectly proper match.”

“Proper!” wailed Jane. “How can you speak of that doxy as a proper match for my son?”

Euphemia waved her podgy hand airily. “A little sacrifice may be necessary in order to recoup our fortunes. Raymond, you are equally eligible. A clergyman ought to have a wife.”

“An unchaste wife will scarce enhance the dignity of the clergy,” Raymond pointed out, “and besides, you know my views on celibacy.”

“Fiddlesticks!” Euphemia repeated. “You pretend to all this High-Church, incense-and-surplices nonsense because you believed Barnabas would put up with Papist rubbish but not with supporting your wife and family if you wed.”

Sophronia forestalled a squabble. “I think it would be very nice if dear Matilda married Mr Courtenay and made him part of the family.”

Everyone gaped at her, including Sir Barnabas.

Euphemia shook her head in disbelief. “Of all the muddle-headed widgeons! Matilda is years older than Courtenay, and he is accustomed to the most beautiful Paphians in London.”

“Only eight years older,” Jane protested. “What does that signify? Such scapegraces are the better for an older wife to keep them in order.”

Sir Barnabas noted than even she hesitated to claim beauty for her leather-complexioned daughter.

Matilda had her own notions. “I’ll be damned if I’ll marry a Town Beau,” she roared, in that voice so extraordinarily loud and deep for her meagre form. “Don’t suppose the damned fellow’s even capable of keeping his seat over a rasper.”

“Mind your tongue,” Euphemia reproved her. “Barnabas may be gone, but stable language still does not belong in decent company. Well, we need not consider marriage unless matters become desperate. Obviously it will be better to cut out Courtenay and Nerissa entirely. Let us plan our campaign.”

Sir Barnabas frowned. He was pleased that they were all convinced that by thwarting Miles and Nerissa they’d ensure their own wealth. The dissolute pair would be caught the moment they strayed from the straight and narrow. On the other hand, they seemed to have forgotten the other stipulations of his Will.

Admittedly, making Miles give up gambling and Nerissa behave like a lady had been afterthoughts, though he had listed them first. His aim had not been solely to make their lives more difficult. In the unlikely event of their passing the third test, giving his fortune to a gamester and a vulgar upstart would be as bad as giving it to the parasites who had battened on him all these years.

But, of course, the two extra conditions simply made it all the more certain that Miles and Nerissa were going to fail.

When Snodgrass brought in fresh tea, coffee, and chocolate, Sir Barnabas slipped out of the room and repaired to the library. The door was closed.

As he contemplated irritably the prospect of squeezing through the keyhole, his two footmen arrived. Though they unknowingly opened the door for him, he was affronted by the trays of food they bore. Eating in his library! In his day, no one had ventured into the room unless summoned, let alone treated it as a dining parlour.

His temper was not improved when he heard Nerissa announce that she had no intention of misbehaving. Defying him again? Hah! He’d see about that.

In a burst of childish petulance, he jogged her elbow as she poured herself a cup of tea. It was his first attempt since his demise to affect anything in the physical world, and it took more effort than he had expected. Drained of energy, he slumped back onto the nearest vacant chair as hot tea sloshed into the saucer and splattered over the glossy, well-polished surface of his walnut library table.

That would teach him to act in a passion, he thought gloomily.

“I’m sorry,” said Nerissa miserably, setting down the teapot with excessive care. Her elbow felt peculiar, sort of cold and tingly. She clasped it in her other hand.

“Not at all, not at all.” Mr Harwood mopped up the splashes with a large pocket handkerchief. “The wood is so well waxed it won’t show a thing, I assure you, my dear young lady.”

“You are tired,” Mr Courtenay observed as he emptied the saucer into the slop basin. “Here, I’ll pour. Eat, and you’ll soon feel better.”

Their kindness was already making her feel better. A few mouthfuls of crisp bacon and buttered eggs restored her further, until she was even able to lend more than half an ear to Mr Harwood’s continued explanations.

“You mean I may buy new clothes?” she exclaimed, thrilled. “And I shan’t have to make them myself? Anything I want?”

“Within reason, Miss Wingate. I cannot give my approval to extravagant ballgowns, since you are unable to spend a night away from Addlescombe. But within reason.”

“I may choose my own?” A sudden dismaying thought struck her. “Oh, but I don’t really know what is proper for a lady to wear in the country.”

“Perhaps your relatives will advise you,” said the lawyer doubtfully. “Lady Philpott, or... Well, not Miss Matilda, I suppose.”