Part 4 (1/2)

”They say your husband is much in demand at court,” Mistress Denholm said bluntly. ”Is that why he has not come with you?”

”He is much in demand by the court,” Susanna corrected her. Mistress Denholm seemed unaware that her words might give offense. ”He is constantly being sent on one diplomatic mission or another, and all to foreign parts.”

”Did he send you in his place, then?”

”Indeed, he did not. It is likely he will be most irritated with me when he hears what I am about.” Fortunately, Robert's temper cooled rapidly. By the time Susanna saw him again she was sure he'd have long since forgiven her for ignoring his wishes.

Apparently pondering the strangeness of Susanna's words, Mistress Denholm slowed her pace still further. They were just pa.s.sing a stone dairy when she spoke again, gesturing toward the building with one large hand. ”The best equipped in Lancas.h.i.+re,” she said proudly, ”with cheese presses, churns, settling pans, strainers, and earthenware jars.”

”You must sell your b.u.t.ter and cheese, then.”

”Aye, and at a good profit, too. The only other income we have here to equal it comes from our dovecotes. We produce an average of a thousand young doves a year.”

Mistress Denholm directed her guest toward a broad path that ended at the orchard. A variety of fruit trees grew inside a low hedge composed of cornelian cherry trees and rose and gooseberry bushes. A few of the roses were still in bloom. Damson, bullace, and tall plum formed the outer circle of the orchard, growing around low plum, cherry, and apple trees. Randomly mixed in were filberts, more cornelian cherries, and medlars.

”You are still picking bullaces and medlars,” Susanna observed, ”but I see no sign of apricots or peaches or quinces.”

”It is too cold here to grow them successfully. We do better with pears.”

”I am accustomed to thinking of Worcesters.h.i.+re for those.”

”And Kent is the county famous for cherries,” Mistress Denholm agreed, intending a compliment. ”We cannot rival either, but neither must we import those fruits.”

They smiled at each other, considerably more at ease than they had been. Mistress Denholm indicated a conveniently located bench. ”Will you sit?”

”It would be pleasant to rest here awhile.” Susanna settled herself at one end of the st.u.r.dy stone seat, smoothing her skirts as she did so.

With a sigh of relief, Mistress Denholm sank down beside her. Her face was ruddy from just the moderate exertion of that short stroll.

”We must dispense with formality,” she said when she had caught her breath. ”I think you will find you need a friend here. My given name is Euphemia, but you may call me Effie as the members of my immediate family do.”

”I am Susanna.”

”Well, then, Susanna, will you accept a friend's advice?”

”That, Effie, depends not upon the friend but upon the advice.”

”Have you heard . . . rumors?”

”My husband's lawyer writes that Appleton Manor is haunted, if that is what you mean.” Susanna did not trouble to add that she did not believe in ghosts, for she saw no point in cutting off a potential source of information.

”That is one rumor. Tell me what Grimshaw said of the way the steward died.”

”He was found face down in a marrow-bone pie. An ignominious end, I agree, but not necessarily one brought on by any supernatural cause. He was an old man, and old men die every day.”

Effie Denholm's head was bowed. Her hands clenched and unclenched around the fabric across her lap. ”He was sitting on the dais. He imagined himself, I suppose, in his old master's place. Overweening pride killed him.” Abruptly, she looked up, eyes glittering. ”Pride,” she repeated. ”It is said pride goeth before a fall.”

Susanna was as puzzled by the other woman's intensity as she was by her apparent knowledge of what was on John Bexwith's mind on the last night of his life. ”Why is where he sat at table so significant?”

”He usurped Sir George's place!”

Robert's, rather, Susanna thought, but she kept her comment to herself. If she had to, she'd demand details, but she was hoping the story would come out without prompting. She'd found that approach worked with almost everyone except her husband. He knew her too well.

Effie was no exception. After a moment she started speaking again. ”Sir George Appleton was a legend in these parts, Susanna. He left broken hearts in every hamlet between here and Manchester.”

”If my husband resembles his father in appearance, then I can believe it,” Susanna conceded. ”Sir Robert is a most handsome man.”

”Pray his morals are better than his father's!”

Startled, Susanna bit back the impulse to defend both men. In truth, Robert had never told her much about his father. He'd evaded her questions by stating that they'd not gotten along. She did know that Robert had left Lancas.h.i.+re when he was nineteen and joined the retinue of the future Duke of Northumberland. That was nothing unusual. Most sons of the gentry received training in n.o.ble households at an even earlier age.

”I know little about Sir George and even less about my husband's mother,” Susanna said carefully.

”He was a wicked, wicked man.”

Curiosity warred with family loyalty. ”Since he has been dead for some time, it seems pointless to revile him.”

”Speak no ill of the dead, you mean? But, my dear Susanna, there is so much pleasure in it.” Effie chuckled to herself, then slanted an inquisitive look in Susanna's direction. ”What do you think of what he left behind? Sir George was an indifferent caretaker. Appleton Manor had deteriorated badly even before his shameful end.”

Shameful end? And did that have something to do with Bexwith's death? Susanna's instincts told her there was more to this situation than met the eye, but before she could ask Effie what she meant, the older woman rose to her feet. ”There is a charming fishpond this way,” she said, striking out in that direction and giving Susanna no choice but to follow.

The pond was well stocked and dotted with lily pads. A willow tree dipped lissome branches near the surface at one end. ”I find Appleton Manor a challenge,” Susanna said as they came to a stop at bankside. She was reluctant to appear too eager for information. ”The building is sound. With good workmen who know their business, I believe restoration will be complete within a year.”

”An expensive project. Three thousand pounds at the least.”

At a guess, more than that had been spent at Denholm Hall in recent years. Susanna complimented Effie on her taste, but she was more interested in returning to the subject of Sir George and his shameful end.

Susanna was reluctant to betray her own abysmal ignorance of events, but she did not see that she had much choice in the matter. ”I will tell you true, Effie,” she confided. ”My husband has said perilous little about his early years and he has almost never mentioned his father. Will you tell me about Sir George?”

”Gladly. You should know the terrible truth.”

”Terrible?” Susanna echoed. First it was shameful. Now it was terrible. Surely the woman exaggerated.

”He had five wives,” Effie said bluntly, ”all of whom died before him. There were mistresses, too. Many, many mistresses.” Her face contorted briefly, but her voice did not change. ”By the time his last wife went to her reward, Sir George was getting on in years and he was not so charming or so goodly to look at anymore. Still, he was wealthy, rich enough, he thought, to buy any woman he wanted. He could not conceive of encountering one who was unwilling. The night he died it is said he tried to seduce a serving wench, a girl new to the household at Appleton Manor. She fled his unwelcome attentions in a panic, running down the flight of stairs from the solar. He pursued her, cup-shotten and furious at the insult to his manhood.”

”He died in a fall.” Robert had told her that much.

”Aye. Broke his neck, the randy old goat.”

Susanna considered the layout of the hall at Appleton Manor. From the dais, John Bexwith would have had an un.o.bstructed view of the stairs to the solar.

”And the girl?” she asked, her suspicions already forming. ”What happened to her?”

”Never seen again.”

”How . . . odd.”