Page 18 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘I do, when the weather is kind, and there is somewhere to walk to,’ she said, and seemed to be glad of the change of subject.

‘London, and February – not promising much in either department. But the Park has its attractions, even at this time of year. If it should not rain tomorrow, Miss Rowsham, do you suppose you could be tempted out of doors for a tramp about its paths?’

Her cautious look was back, but he sensed no unwillingness from her. ‘That would be…agreeable,’ she said. ‘Thank you. If it should not rain, shall I expect you at, say, noon?’

He bowed assent, and was already thinking, Now what on earth did I do that for? It was only a walk in the Park, but what expectations might it arouse in the poor woman – and her relatives? He thought of Grandmère’s words, that from small chances grow great changes.

Well, damnit, it was only a walk. He could always make that clear – if it even happened. It might rain.

Well, it was February, after all. The next morning it was raining, from a sky like a sulky face that promised it could keep it up all day. He dashed off a note cancelling the arrangement, but without suggesting a new one, and sent it round to the Ravenscars’ house – at a decent time that suggested he had waited to see if it would clear up, but without leaving it too late for her to make other arrangements. As he gave it to the maid to find a boy to take it, the post arrived, with a note from Giles to say he was coming up to Town, and another from Aunt Caroline asking him to call round. He gave the maid a penny for the boy and then forgot all about it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Kitty was not a great walker, but the March day was so fine, with a promise of spring in the air, that she decided to walk down to the village where she had sick-visiting to do. Prudently, she arranged for Archer to bring down the trap to meet her afterwards and drive her back up.

There was a chilly wind, but she was warmly dressed and relished the freshness after so many hours indoors. The valley side was still winter-coloured, brown and speckled like the breast of a young robin, but the first lines of green were running like a wind-blown flame along the rolling woods. A blackbird at the top of a wild pear tree burst into song as she approached, bowing and swaying as the wind tossed his branch against the chilly blue, his bright beak and eye-ring foretelling spring. She returned his salute as she passed below on the path, and he cocked his head sideways but did not stop singing.

Visiting the sick and poor of the neighbourhood was a traditional duty of the mistress of Ashmore Castle, which her mother-in-law had largely passed off onto her daughters – probably to the relief of the visited, since the dowager countess was about as emollient as a thistle. Kitty had no-one to delegate to, not even any company this time as both Alice and Rachel were in London. Still, on this fine, breezy day it did not seem a toil, and though the basket was heavy, it would get lighter with each visit.

Her first two calls were on retired servants from the Castle. They had left before her time, but Stainton pensioners were a duty for life. She gave them things from her basket (feeling absurdly like Little Red Riding Hood) and sat with them a while and let them talk. The latter boon, she sometimes felt, was more important than the former: a busy neighbouring housewife might pop in with a bit of stew, but who had time to stop and listen?

A while later she was walking along the high street and met Miss Eddowes. She lived at Weldon House, a large, stone-faced building almost opposite the church, a single lady possessed of wealth to an unknown degree, which she expended in good works. She was known as ‘a philanthropist’ – or occasionally less politely as ‘a do-good’ – and was active on many committees in the village.

‘Good morning, Lady Stainton.’ Miss Eddowes glanced at Kitty’s basket and said astutely, ‘Sick-visiting?’

‘I was going to see poor Weaver.’ John Weaver was, confusingly, a thatcher by trade, and was one of those injured in the train crash. ‘But a neighbour told me he’s still at the cottage hospital. I thought he had a broken leg and would be at home by now.’

‘It was badly crushed,’ Miss Eddowes enlightened her, ‘and they couldn’t save it. They had to cut it off.’

‘Oh dear, how dreadful!’ Kitty paled.

‘He is very much affected by it, as you can imagine. I was on my way to visit him myself. Would you care to walk along with me?’

Kitty assented gladly. She was curious about Miss Eddowes – a small, brisk woman, very self-contained, and always dressed neatly and unobtrusively in black. For some reason, the Dowager Lady Stainton had disapproved of her, to the extent that she wouldn’t have her name mentioned in the house. Kitty had no idea what the feud between them could possibly have been since they moved in very different circles. She would have loved to ask, but Miss Eddowes’s very self-containment offered no openings. It was hard even to tell her age – her smooth, unlined face told no tales. She might have been forty, fifty or even sixty. And she never seemed to chat: when she spoke, it was to the purpose and only about village matters in which she was concerned.

Kitty was about to remark that it was a fine day, purely so that they would not be walking in silence, when Miss Eddowes spoke first. ‘I’m glad I met you, Lady Stainton, because I wanted to speak to you about Axe Brandom.’

Kitty looked concerned. ‘Oh dear, has he had a relapse? I thought he was back to health.’

‘It’s not that. Our MP, Frederick Verney, heard about Brandom’s heroic act, and felt it ought to have recognition. He spoke to the rector, and the rector spoke to me, and we agreed that the most appropriate award would be the Albert Medal.’

‘Isn’t that for rescuing people at sea?’ Kitty said doubtfully.

‘It was originally,’ said Miss Eddowes, ‘but since the seventies there has been a separate class for life-saving gallantry on land. Brandom’s actions certainly meet that description.’

‘Indeed,’ said Kitty, ‘but what have I to do with it?’

‘Verney is willing to put Brandom’s name forward to the King – he thinks it would reflect well on the village – and if the medal is granted, the rector would like some kind of local celebration on the return from the Palace: a reception committee to meet the train, a band, bunting, a grand luncheon with speeches. The large room at the Crown might do for that, or perhaps the Brinklows would have it at the Red House in their great hall.’

‘I suspect poor Brandom would be rather overwhelmed by the fuss.’

‘Well, he has a large family and I’m sure they would enjoy “the fuss”, as you call it. They can be relied on to persuade him. However, before any of this can be put in hand, Verney wants to be sure that Brandom is of exemplary character. Nothing could be more damaging than to honour a man in the name of the village, and then to find out that there is, shall we say?, a skeleton in his cupboard. One must be sure before one presents a name to the King that His Majesty will not be embarrassed. Naturally we have asked about the village, but as Lord Stainton is his employer, Verney would be best reassured if he would give Brandom a character.’

Miss Eddowes’s bright, keen gaze fixed on Kitty’s face with an insistence that was like being pecked, almost but not quite painlessly. Kitty was not, in her own opinion, quick at understanding what lay beneath people’s words, but she had a feeling that what was being asked was a guarantee from Giles in his capacity as a peer of the realm and leading local landowner. It wasn’t that anyone had any particular doubts about Axe Brandom, they just wanted to be sure someone else would take the blame if anything went awry.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, feeling this was a little unfair, ‘you ought to write to my husband officially.’

‘Oh, the committee will do that,’ said Miss Eddowes. Kitty did not ask which committee. Evidently one had already been set up. There were matrons in the village who lived for committee meetings to enliven the monotony of their domestic days. ‘But I should like to know, Lady Stainton, that you are with us in our endeavours and that you will do what you can to expedite matters with your husband. He is such a busy man that a letter from us might be overlooked in the great press of his concerns. If you could place the issue before him personally, it would reinforce our formal communication. If, that is, you agree that Brandom should be honoured in this way?’