A Death in the Wedding Party Read online

  ‘Come on, Euphemia! You know as well as I do machinations are afoot. And I for one would rather be on hand to see them through and to offer you …’

  I gave him a strongly repressing look.

  ‘Oh yes, very well. Pass the marmalade please.’

  I puzzled over Mr Bertram’s remarks, but could make no real sense of them. The business of the house continued as usual. Richenda went up to London to ready her trousseau. Sir Richard gave her a lavish spending allowance and she came back with two motor cars full of boxes. She floated around the place, very much the bride-to-be in all her glory, even though no venue had been set nor invites issued. I decided to merely be content that Tipton stayed away and to avoid thinking about the helter-skelter of planning that would ensue once a place had been determined.

  When Richenda returned from London, her mood changed. She took every opportunity to goad me and I took every opportunity to remain calm and professional. I had learnt that nothing infuriated her more than someone not rising to her attacks.

  Tipton had still not returned and she was behaving less and less like a bride-in-waiting. I couldn’t help wondering if it were all going to amount to nothing after all. The other sign that things were different was the inordinate amount of letters she was writing.

  Then one morning Richenda erupted into my parlour. As the senior female servant I now had a small sitting room where I could study the house accounts. I had managed to rid it of most of the monstrous old, dark furniture my predecessor had favoured, and I had also been ruthless with the remnants of Victoriana. The result was a light, airy space with minimal furnishing, but a sense of harmony. My one luxury was the vase of fresh flowers I kept on the central table. The bright colours of nature always cheered me and reminded me that there was a world beyond the control of the Staplefords; the natural world where no matter how they wished their laws did not hold sway.

  It was a good space, but an ecstatic Richenda overwhelmed it. She waved a letter far too close to my face and announced, ‘She is coming!’

  ‘Queen Mary?’ I asked without thinking.

  Richenda’s face clouded. ‘No, Euphemia, I am referring to my chief bridesmaid.’

  She thrust the letter further under my nose and I managed to read the name of a minor member of a European Royal House.

  ‘Er, congratulations.’

  ‘She is a relation on my late mother’s side,’ Richenda was now pacing the room in earnest. ‘We must of course ensure no one knows. For her safety.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, thinking telling your housekeeper wasn’t exactly the best way to begin a campaign of silence.

  Richenda stopped and looked at me with her head on one side. ‘Though these things do tend to get out.’

  ‘I won’t say a word.’

  Richenda’s face became mulish. ‘Imagine if anyone knew,’ she said slowly and carefully, ‘every society photographer … Such a shame about Lady Grey6. I wonder if Bertram knows her replacement?’

  I gasped. ‘You’re not going to ask him, are you?’

  Richenda blinked and noticed I was still there. ‘Tactless, you think? He’d never have married her. She smelled too much of shop even for our liberal-leaning Bertram.’

  I swallowed. ‘I really have no notion of Mr Bertram’s love life, but I am aware he thought highly of …’

  ‘I wasn’t asking for your opinion.’

  ‘Of course not. But what it is exactly you wish my help with?’

  ‘Nothing,’ snapped Richenda. She slammed the door on her way causing my little vase to rock wildly.

  I stared after her a strange thought crossing my mind. Could it be the Richenda had no one else to tell about her bridesmaid coup? We had the occasional party at Stapleford Hall, but without exception the guests were connected to Lord Stapleford’s constituency business or the family’s actual business interests. I closed my accounts books. When I had arrived at the household, Richenda had been returning to the house after a period of exile imposed by her father. Her interests in the suffragettes’ movement, and the fact that she had set up a house for fallen women, had not impressed her father. Richenda was unconditionally loyal to her brother, who she failed to see was made in the same mould as her father. I remain unsure if Richenda does support causes that I too would like to champion or was simply set on annoying her father. Whichever it was it had left her without high society friends of her own to the extent her housekeeper was the best person she had to boast of her royal connections. All those letters she had been writing must have been her search for a bridesmaid. I shook my head, pushing away these welcome thoughts. If I continued on the vein I would begin feeling sorry for Richenda and I could not allow such a weakness while Sir Richard Stapleford and Tipton were still weaving their various machinations. Of course, it didn’t help that I had no idea what those machinations might be. Running Stapleford Hall at full strength took a lot of time and attention. We might have been within motoring distance of London, but it could just as well have been a world away as far as news of real events was concerned.

  Since accepting this appointment, I had found out far more than was necessary about the linen count of Stapleford Hall, and how many greens the family was likely to consume during the summer season. I knew their intimate details, but I knew nothing about their activities. Sir Richard had sewn me up tightly in a web of domesticity. I was too busy to be bored, but I was also totally ineffective in challenging the Stapleford misdemeanours. I had painted myself into a corner.

  I had had some hope that the wedding would allow me access to more information, but Rory’s newt scheme, albeit a philanthropic idea, had changed all that. At least Mrs Deighton was safe for now.

  I, on the other hand, was stuck in the doldrums.

  ______________

  6 Lady Grey was the pseudonym of a high-class gossip columnist, who had got her claws into Bertram until she suddenly expired. See A Death in the Asylum.

  Chapter Five

  Announcements of Varying Levels of Concern

  The day began brightly, beautifully and with the whole household running like clockwork. Only Richenda and Bertram remained in residence. Bertram had declared to Rory the day was so fine he was going to walk the land and see if he could put up some pigeons. I served Richenda a solitary (but hearty) breakfast and observed her to be in an unusually quiet mood.

  Then at eleven o’clock a delivery of the trousseau came in on the train, accompanied by Lady Stapleford. Lord Stapleford’s widow was very French. She had been living in Brighton, and she disliked me intently. My first sight of her was of a figure draped in black lace topped by a large and remarkably ugly hat. She was dabbing an overlarge handkerchief to her eyes. As I made my way across the hallway to welcome her she exclaimed, ‘To think it has all come to this!’

  I believe that even my mother, with her vast knowledge of etiquette and the right things to say, might have been somewhat flummoxed at this opening. I folded my hands neatly as I approached and bobbed a small curtsey. ‘Lady Stapleford, it is an honour to welcome you back to Stapleford Hall. I am afraid it will take a few minutes to air your rooms, as I was not aware of your arrival today. If you would perhaps like to take tea in the morning room I could ensure everything is perfect for your arrival.’

  ‘I am not a guest,’ snapped Lady Stapleford, lowering her handkerchief and snapping it violently towards me. ‘This is my home.’

  And there it was; the heart of the matter. Even I did not know who technically owned Stapleford Hall at this time. Richard Stapleford paid my wages and he was the eldest son of the late Sir Richard Stapleford, so it was to him I deferred, but I had no idea how Lady Stapleford fitted into all this. Certainly no one had seen fit to build her a dower house. A closer scrutiny of her clothing suggested that bows and turns had been made over. I was not up with the latest fashions. Richenda never bothered to dress well in the country, but I knew all too well the signs of made over clothing. Hadn’t Mother and I done it for years? I was beginning to fe
el sorry for Lady Stapleford, when her voice cut razor like through my thoughts.

  ‘And what have you done with my son?’

  She meant, of course, Bertram. She had been Lord Stapleford’s second wife. ‘I believe he is out rough shooting,’ I said.

  ‘That is not what I meant,’ sneered the lady. ‘I was asking about your activities with my only boy.’

  It took a moment or several for the coarseness of the question to find its way through the fog of my brain. When it did so, I confess, I suddenly embodied an outstanding impression of a goldfish. I simply did not have the words.

  My rescue came from an unexpected source. ‘’Ere yous, watch what yer doing with ‘em cases. The buckle on that’s worth more than you get in a year, you clodhopping dunder-brain.’

  A pertly pretty young woman, dressed in the dark clothes of a servant, but with a far too dashing hat tipped to one side, swept in. ‘Lord, these country bumpkins. Beggin’ pardon your ladyship, but there’s not a gnat’s worth of brain between the lot of them.’ She was carrying a small case.

  Lady Stapleford’s direct gaze didn’t break from mine. ‘Indeed, Suzette, you will find matters in the country can be quite parochial, even basic.’

  ‘Don’t know about that ma’am. But that footman didn’t look like he’d ever seen a proper lady’s luggage before. I kept the jewel case meself, not knowing you I was to trust like.’ She turned her attention to me. ‘And who’s this? The village idiot?’

  ‘This,’ said Lady Stapleford, ‘is Lord Stapleford’s housekeeper, Euphemia St John. She was previously my son’s housekeeper at that terrible estate. She affects a great fondness for the men of my family.’

  ‘Oh, like that, is it?’ said Suzette. ‘Then I think it’s right condescending for you to come ’ere at all. Nothing’s unpacked. I could have us out of here in a trice, my lady. I’m not sure it is cognisant with your ladyship’s dignity to remain.’ The expression on her face was insolence itself, but I noted a certain eagerness when she talked about departing. This new lady’s maid of Lady Stapleford’s had some secrets of her own, I decided.

  ‘Lady Stapleford,’ I began calmly, ‘I am aware that you have been living in a retired manner since your widowhood, but I can assure you any rumours that might have reached your ears referencing any misdemeanours of your son would refer solely to his impulsive purchase of White Orchards which has been a sad trial to him.’

  ‘Oh la-di-da,’ trilled Suzette. ‘Talks like a regular book, she does.’

  ‘Suzette, oversee that footman taking my cases to my rooms. He will be using the servants’ stair. You remember my explaining the house layout?’

  Suzette bobbed a small curtsey. ‘At once ma’am,’ she said and then to my utter astonishment behind her mistress’s back she thumbed her nose at me.

  ‘My lady, I am the new butler, Rory McLeod. Can I be of service?’

  I span round to see Rory had appeared. Over these past months I had noticed he taken the butler prerequisite of appearing silently very much to heart.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Scotchman,’ said Lady Stapleford somewhat enigmatically. She swept past us both and mounted the stairs. ‘My maid will inform you of my requirements.’

  We turned and watched her in respectful silence as she disappeared over the first landing.

  ‘Would that maid be the cheeky wee miss I just passed on the servants’ stair?’ asked Rory.

  ‘She thumbed her nose at me,’ I said.

  ‘I was thinking you were looking a wee bit pale. I gather you’ve no idea how to deal with such rudeness?’

  ‘Even the boot boy wouldn’t think to do that to me.’ I said. ‘At least not to my face,’ I added on reflection.

  ‘Well, she’ll get short shift from me if she tries that.’

  I sighed. ‘She won’t. You’re a man.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said Rory, ‘but I fail to see why that should make a difference.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s a female thing. I’d better go and inform Lady Richenda her stepmother is here.’

  ‘Send Merry,’ advised Rory. ‘You need to work on your authority.’

  I found Merry in the kitchen. ‘Ooh, this will set the cat among the pigeons,’ she said gleefully. ‘Do you think she’s come back to oversee the wedding?’

  ‘She’s more likely to be back because she’s out of funds,’ said the cook.

  ‘Mrs Deighton,’ I said shocked. ‘It’s not like you to gossip.’

  ‘I knows Lady Stapleford. Me and her go way back. Can’t say we were ever on friendly terms – and if she took a dislike, like she sometimes did, she could make life hard for you, but she and I, we rubbed along alright. She liked my French chicken. Said it reminded her of the old days.’

  ‘Well, she has always disliked me,’ I said.

  ‘Your arrival did sort of start the downfall of the Staplefords, didn’t it?’ said Merry.

  ‘It was hardly my fault.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Deighton, ‘things were set to implode for some time before Euphemia arrived.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked suddenly sidetracked. Mrs Deighton never talked about the days before my arrival and I had forgotten how well she knew the family.

  ‘Like you said,’ she answered annoyingly, ‘I’m not one to gossip.’

  ‘Right Merry, go and tell Richenda now before her stepmother introduces herself and then get Daisy to make up a bed for her lady’s maid. If I’m any judge of character we won’t be seeing her downstairs for her dinner with us. It will be a tray in her room.’

  ‘That’s how it should be,’ said Mrs Deighton. ‘Like you should eat in your parlour, Euphemia, and not with us.’

  I felt a tears start to my eyes. ‘Mrs Deighton!’

  ‘Now, now, my dear. I’m not saying that’s what I would like, but if we’re going to be descended on by a load of toffs we should get ourselves sorted.’

  I felt someone close behind me, so close I could feel the heat of them. ‘I do not think,’ said Rory’s voice, ‘that the matter of which servant attends the communal dining is a matter for the cook. It is a matter for Miss St John and myself to discuss.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Deighton.

  ‘I do,’ said Rory firmly. ‘I am also informing you that tonight’s dinner will need extra courses. It is no longer a simple affair. I have been informed over the telephone machine that both Sir Richard Stapleford and Mr Tipton will be present tonight. This means that all the senior members of the family will be together for the first time since the late Sir Richard Stapleford’s demise. I trust you will be able to create a suitable repast?’

  Mrs Deighton gave him a look of horror and then disappeared into the scullery calling for her maid. Rory took me by the elbow and steered me out the kitchen. ‘I need a word,’ he said. His breath was hot and close to my ear. I am ashamed to say it didn’t feel unpleasant. In fact a strange tingle ran down my spine. My lacings must be too tight.

  However, I didn’t have time to respond as the garden door flew open and a flushed, but happy-looking Bertram entered the room. He had a broken shotgun over his shoulder and several pigeons strung together. ‘Look at these, Euphemia,’ he cried. ‘Look at these. ‘I’ve not lost my eye.’

  ‘I think you may find that Mrs Deighton will be delighted to have those,’ said Rory. ‘We will be a very full house tonight.’

  ‘Your mother has arrived,’ I said, ‘and your brother and Mr Tipton are expected later.’

  The bright enthusiasm in Bertram’s face faded. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said. ‘It’ll be nothing but wedding plans.’

  ‘I fear so, sir,’ said Rory. The two men exchanged a look of understanding from which I was excluded. Bertram then stomped off to the kitchen leaving a trail of muddy footprints.

  ‘The floor,’ I cried.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Rory. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘But!’

  ‘No one’s going to see it back here,’ he said an
d then, there is no other word for it, shoved, yes shoved, me into my own parlour.

  ‘Good heavens!’ I said as he shut the door smartly behind us, ‘what has got into you, Rory McLeod?’

  For an answer, the butler took me roughly in his arms and kissed me.

  Chapter Six

  In Which Matters Progress

  I have been brought up not to think about kissing much less to indulge in it, but I own the sensation was not unpleasant. Rory had soft, warm lips and his arms around me felt reassuringly strong. For a moment I did surrender to his embrace and I confess I enjoyed it. But then with ringing clarity I heard my mother’s voice in my head, ‘The son of a grocer. The son of a grocer with an Earl’s granddaughter.’

  Rory let me go. I stepped away from him to help us both resist further temptation. He was breathing heavily and there was a look in his eyes I did not recognise. A glance in the mirror over the mantle showed me my dishevelled hair, a pink blush across my cheeks and a certain wild look in my own eyes.

  Rory took a step forward. I took another step back. ‘Enough,’ I said, holding up my hand. Even to my own ears my voice sounded less than forbidding.

  ‘Och lass, I cannae keep up this charade any longer. We were made for each other, and you know it.’

  As I looked into his glorious green eyes, my heart beat faster and my breath came quicker. My voice answered him seemingly without my volition. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We are.’

  It was encouragement enough and before I had time to take another breath I was in his arms once more. This time I made no pretence at resistance. We might be miles apart on the social scale accordingly to my mother, but right here, right now I was a housekeeper and he was the butler. We were social equals and any secret history I might have could remain secret for the rest of my life as far as I was concerned. In Rory’s arms I felt I had come home. I felt safe and secure, and loved and cherished, and other stronger emotions that do not need to be named in words. For all I cared the rest of the world could go to blazes.

  This time it was Rory who broke away. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I will do this right. I want you for my wife, Euphemia. This is the last time I will propose to you. Will you have me?’