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Authors: Judith Cutler
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violent ringing of the front doorbell. Before our eyes, a succession of other bells sprang into activity, the last being that in his lordship’s bedchamber. The panic crossing Davies’ poor old face was catching. Like him, I took to my heels and ran whither he was summoned, pushing through knots of maids too hysterical to move aside when asked.
‘It’s his lordship,’ gasped Mrs Beckles, clearing a way at the foot of the backstairs. ‘Pray, Mr Campion, go to his room and see what you can do.’
‘You have already sent for Dr Hansard?’
‘Of course,’ she replied simply. ‘Go, sir!’ She pushed me firmly between my shoulder blades.
The first thing was to clear the crowd pressing round the bed, and demand decent silence from those chattering or wailing uncontrollably.
Her ladyship alone remained icily calm. Rising from where she knelt at the bedside, she said softly, ‘I fear you come too late, and that Dr Hansard’s journey will also be wasted. My husband is dead. I believe that he was already dead when I managed to pull him from the stream.’
For the first time I noticed that she was indeed soaking wet. ‘Fetch Miss Lizzie,’ I told a huge-eyed young girl, too young in any case for such a scene.
Lizzie appeared as if by magic.
‘Pray, take her ladyship to her own room and persuade her into some dry clothes. She must be chilled to the bone, and I am sure that is what Dr Hansard would advise. Hurry, Lizzie.’
Like the sensible girl she was, she acted without argument, propelling my cousin from the room with the same tactful force as I’d seen her use on the Jenkins brood.
With her example, one by one the other servants dispersed, leaving his lordship to the solemn care of his butler and his valet.
Dr Hansard, still red-faced from the exertions of a hurried journey, was closing Lord Elham’s eyes and drawing a sheet over his face when her ladyship reappeared, already clad inblack from head to toe. I doubt if I had ever seen her more beautiful, though I am sure that that was not her intention. She reminded me of a long-forgotten line from the Bard: ‘Like Patience, in a monument, smiling at grief’. As yet, of course, she smiled not at all, and it might be many months before she allowed herself to, but her self-control and dignity were very pattern-cards of behaviour. She sank again to her knees as I led in prayer those already assembled.
When we escorted her back to her boudoir a few minutes later, in vain did Dr Hansard press laudanum drops upon her. She needed nothing, she declared, except a solitary period of quiet reflection. But her son must immediately be sent for – the new Lord Elham, she reminded us, with some emphasis.
‘A bad business,’ Dr Hansard observed a few minutes later, as on his orders we drank some of his new lordship’s wine in the housekeeper’s parlour. He had insisted on a glass for both Mrs Beckles and Mr Davies, as a restorative after shock.
‘But how should it come about?’ Mrs Beckles demanded. ‘His lordship was no child, to go paddling when his nurse’s back was turned. He was a grown man, with more sense, surely to goodness. And how came her ladyship to find him?’
Hansard favoured her with an appreciative smile. ‘Those are precisely the questions I shall have to ask in my capacity of justice of the peace. Was she alone, coming by chance upon him as he lay in the water? Or were they walking together? Tell me, were they in the habit of taking afternoon strolls in each other’s company?’
Her glance spoke volumes.
He got to his feet. ‘Come, Campion, there is enough light left for us to see the site of the accident for ourselves. Perhaps Mr Davies will accompany us?’
Davies jumped, as if kicked. He had been silent so long in his corner that I had completely forgotten about him. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘And the lad who heard her ladyship’s cries and came running to summon help. If we can find him.’
Mrs Beckles opened her mouth to say
‘It’s his lordship,’ gasped Mrs Beckles, clearing a way at the foot of the backstairs. ‘Pray, Mr Campion, go to his room and see what you can do.’
‘You have already sent for Dr Hansard?’
‘Of course,’ she replied simply. ‘Go, sir!’ She pushed me firmly between my shoulder blades.
The first thing was to clear the crowd pressing round the bed, and demand decent silence from those chattering or wailing uncontrollably.
Her ladyship alone remained icily calm. Rising from where she knelt at the bedside, she said softly, ‘I fear you come too late, and that Dr Hansard’s journey will also be wasted. My husband is dead. I believe that he was already dead when I managed to pull him from the stream.’
For the first time I noticed that she was indeed soaking wet. ‘Fetch Miss Lizzie,’ I told a huge-eyed young girl, too young in any case for such a scene.
Lizzie appeared as if by magic.
‘Pray, take her ladyship to her own room and persuade her into some dry clothes. She must be chilled to the bone, and I am sure that is what Dr Hansard would advise. Hurry, Lizzie.’
Like the sensible girl she was, she acted without argument, propelling my cousin from the room with the same tactful force as I’d seen her use on the Jenkins brood.
With her example, one by one the other servants dispersed, leaving his lordship to the solemn care of his butler and his valet.
Dr Hansard, still red-faced from the exertions of a hurried journey, was closing Lord Elham’s eyes and drawing a sheet over his face when her ladyship reappeared, already clad inblack from head to toe. I doubt if I had ever seen her more beautiful, though I am sure that that was not her intention. She reminded me of a long-forgotten line from the Bard: ‘Like Patience, in a monument, smiling at grief’. As yet, of course, she smiled not at all, and it might be many months before she allowed herself to, but her self-control and dignity were very pattern-cards of behaviour. She sank again to her knees as I led in prayer those already assembled.
When we escorted her back to her boudoir a few minutes later, in vain did Dr Hansard press laudanum drops upon her. She needed nothing, she declared, except a solitary period of quiet reflection. But her son must immediately be sent for – the new Lord Elham, she reminded us, with some emphasis.
‘A bad business,’ Dr Hansard observed a few minutes later, as on his orders we drank some of his new lordship’s wine in the housekeeper’s parlour. He had insisted on a glass for both Mrs Beckles and Mr Davies, as a restorative after shock.
‘But how should it come about?’ Mrs Beckles demanded. ‘His lordship was no child, to go paddling when his nurse’s back was turned. He was a grown man, with more sense, surely to goodness. And how came her ladyship to find him?’
Hansard favoured her with an appreciative smile. ‘Those are precisely the questions I shall have to ask in my capacity of justice of the peace. Was she alone, coming by chance upon him as he lay in the water? Or were they walking together? Tell me, were they in the habit of taking afternoon strolls in each other’s company?’
Her glance spoke volumes.
He got to his feet. ‘Come, Campion, there is enough light left for us to see the site of the accident for ourselves. Perhaps Mr Davies will accompany us?’
Davies jumped, as if kicked. He had been silent so long in his corner that I had completely forgotten about him. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘And the lad who heard her ladyship’s cries and came running to summon help. If we can find him.’
Mrs Beckles opened her mouth to say
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