The House in Quill Court

by Charlotte Betts

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

1813. Venetia Lovell lives by the sea in Kent with her pretty, frivolous mother and idle younger brother. Venetia's father, Theo, is an interior decorator to the rich and frequently travels away from home, leaving his sensible and artistic daughter to look after the family. Venetia designs paper hangings and she and her father often daydream about having an imaginary shop where they would display the highest quality furniture, fabrics and art to his clients.

When a handsome but antagonistic stranger, Jack Chamberlaine, arrives at the Lovell's cottage just before Christmas bringing terrible news, Venetia's world is turned upside-down and the family have no option but to move to London, to the House in Quill Court and begin a new life. Here, Venetia's courage and creativity are tested to breaking point, and she discovers a love far greater than she could have ever imagined . . .

From the multi-award-winning author of The Apothecary's Daughter, The House in Quill Court is a gorgeously evocative Regency novel bursting with historical flavour and characters you won't forget. If you love Philippa Gregory and Joanne Harris, you will adore Charlotte Betts.

Release date: January 7, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

Venetia skittered down the lane, her feet slithering over cobbles glistening from a recent shower. She pushed through the gate on to the tussocky cliff top where a blast of icy wind snatched at her blonde hair and pinched colour into her cheeks. The tide was out and the sun sinking. She’d have to be quick.

The narrow steps cut into the cliff side were as familiar to her as her own face as she’d climbed up and down them almost every day since she could remember. She stopped midway to catch her breath, clinging on to a cushion of thrift growing in a crevice. Salty wind tugged at her skirt, flapping it about her legs as she scrambled down, a basket clutched in one hand.

There’d been another landslip and clumps of chalk littered the ground at the base of the cliffs. Head down into the wind, she strode across the shifting sand. She scanned the water’s edge where the ceaseless waves frothed on to the sand. There! Hurrying forward, she picked up a handful of bright green sea lettuce. Father would be home again soon and he always said that her sea lettuce soup was the best he’d ever tasted.

She gathered seaweed until her basket was full. The soothing suck and hiss of the sea whispered in her ears, as intimately known to her as the beat of her heart. Above, the wide dome of the sky was a gauzy pearl grey, melding with the water at the horizon so that it was impossible to distinguish where they met. The sun, bright white with a hazy halo, was reflected in a shimmering path, inviting her to cross the water. What would it be like to take the path over the horizon and enter that shining, radiant world? Suddenly seawater foamed around her boots and then shrank away again, halting such flights of fancy. The tide was turning. Time to go.

As she walked back to the chalky cliffs she picked up a whelk shell, partly encrusted with barnacles. She rubbed off the gritty sand with her skirt. The colour of thick cream, the shell was as big as a baby’s fist and spiralled to a point. Inside it was shaded blush pink. A beautiful thing. Smooth under her fingers but with regular ridges and an intricate pattern of hair-thin crosshatching, it felt like the finely woven linen Father had ordered from Ireland for the sitting-room curtains.

She caught sight of a man on a chestnut horse cantering towards her along the sand, his cloak flying out behind. She squinted into the dying light as the thundering hooves drew closer and her heart lifted.

‘Father!’ she shouted, waving her arm.

Dante came to a standstill a few feet away, tossing his mane.

Her father, thick white hair blowing around his head, slid down from the saddle and caught her up in a hug. ‘There you are, my darling girl! I came at once to find you.’

Venetia smiled and held up her basket. ‘Sea lettuce for your soup.’

His green eyes smiled back at her. ‘We’d better be away home,’ he said, mounting Dante again.

She climbed up behind him and they trotted along the water’s edge while the sun dropped into the sea.

Father looked over his shoulder. ‘Hold tight!’ he said.

Venetia wrapped her arms around his broad waist and rested her cheek against his solid back. His cloak smelled the way Father always did, a comforting mixture of leather, Eau de Cologne and tobacco.

Dante gathered speed and Father shouted in exhilaration as the wind buffeted their faces. The tide was out far enough for them to canter across the sand and round to the neighbouring bay. At last he pulled on the reins and guided Dante into a sedate trot towards the steep lane leading up to the town.

They clip-clopped over the cobbles and turned into a lane running parallel with the sea until they came to the higgledy-piggledy row of cottages set on the side of the hill. Lights glimmered in the windows.

Kitty opened the front door, her trim figure silhouetted against the light. She tucked a dark curl back into her cap and gave Father a welcoming smile.

‘There’s a smugglers’ moon tonight,’ he said, handing her his cloak. ‘Isn’t that right, Kitty?’

‘If you say so, sir,’ she replied, looking at him from under sweeping eyelashes.

A fire crackled in the parlour hearth and Mama, looking absurdly young for her forty-two years, sat beside it with her fair hair confined by a blue velvet ribbon that matched her eyes.

The black pug that had been lying curled in front of the fire leaped up and ran to greet them.

‘Down, Caesar!’ Father laughed as the dog jumped up at him, trying to lick his face.

‘Caesar? That’s not the first time you’ve called him that,’ said Venetia.

‘He looks like a Caesar. Sorry, Nero, old chap.’ Father fondled the little creature’s ears and then rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, isn’t this cosy?’ As always, his solid figure looked too large for the neat little parlour. He peered at the fireplace. ‘What’s this I see? You’ve marbled the fireplace, Venetia?’

She nodded and held her breath while he ran one finger over the painted finish.

‘You have a sure hand,’ he said. ‘It’s quite as good as work produced by any of my painters’ apprentices.’

She basked in the warmth of his smile.

‘We had no fire for three days,’ said Mama, ‘and were obliged to sit in the kitchen to keep warm. But I will admit that I’m pleased with the result.’

‘Mama, where’s Raffie?’ asked Venetia.

‘He went to White Place Farm to see George.’

‘Didn’t you tell him he must be back by dark?’

‘He’ll be home soon.’ Mama smiled at Father, her face glowing with love for him. ‘You look tired, Theo. Now tell me what’s been happening while you were away.’

Venetia peered between the curtains into the darkness outside. ‘I’ll go and look for him.’

‘Raffie’s seventeen and more able to look after himself in the dark than you are,’ said Mama. ‘He’ll be going away to university next year.’

Venetia sighed and arranged the curtains into neat folds again, while unease whispered in her mind.

‘Now, Fanny, my love,’ said Father, ‘have you been practising your pianoforte?’

Mama clasped her hands together. ‘I have something new for us to sing.’

Venetia slipped out of the room. They’d be entirely wrapped up in each other for hours.

The kitchen was full of steam and a rotund little figure enveloped in a clean apron leaned over a simmering pan. ‘I’ve put the leg of mutton on to boil, Miss Venetia,’ said Mrs Allnut.

Kitty sat at the table peeling turnips.

From the parlour came the sound of the pianoforte and then Mama’s clear voice singing ‘The Last Rose of Summer’.

The back door opened abruptly, letting in a cold draught.

‘Raffie!’ said Venetia. ‘I was worried.’

Her brother came forward into the light.

A gasp caught in her throat. There was blood on his cheek and his coat was muddy and torn.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘I bet George I could stay on the back of one of his father’s bullocks for three minutes.’

‘And did you?’ asked Kitty, her hazel eyes gleaming with suppressed laughter.

The boy thrust a hand into his pocket and grinned as he showed her a silver coin.

‘You risked your life for half a crown?’ Concern made Venetia’s voice sharp.

‘Don’t fuss!’ said Raffie.

‘Sit down so I can clean you up before Mama sees.’

Sighing heavily, Raffie sat.

 

After supper, Father bellowed with laughter at the tale and clapped Raffie on the shoulder, calling him a chip off the old block. The family played whist by the fireside. Eventually Mama yawned and retired to bed, soon to be followed upstairs by Raffie.

Father stirred the embers with the poker and smiled at Venetia. ‘I have something to show you.’ He delved inside his saddlebag and pulled out a roll of thick paper, which he laid over the table. It was decorated in pretty shades of cream and French green, the ground imitating drapery with delicate pink rosebuds ascending in stripes.

Venetia laughed with pleasure. The rosebuds brought back to her those languorous days of summer she’d spent painting in the garden. To see the design she’d produced made into a paper hanging was a source of great excitement to her.

‘I’ve called it “Venetia’s Rose”,’ said Father. ‘Soon it will make its debut in a Mrs Beresford’s bedroom and then on the guest-room walls of a smart townhouse in Hanover Square. Furthermore, I’ve shown your sketches for the “Feather and Leaf” design to some other clients, who’ve expressed an interest.’

‘And I’ve been working on more designs,’ said Venetia. Full of enthusiasm, she opened her sketchbook to show him. ‘I found a beautiful whelk shell today and I’ll use that as inspiration for another design.’

Father put on his gold-framed spectacles and studied the drawings closely. ‘The one with the garlands is delightful. I like this with the medallions and ribbon swags… it’s perfect for grand staircases… but I’d like to see more pastel florals and stripes for bedrooms and also something bold for reception rooms.’ He looked up at her and smiled. ‘You’ve done well, my love.’

Venetia’s heart swelled. When Father praised her she felt as if she could do anything.

He leaned back in his chair.

‘If you turn a few pages you’ll see my latest ideas for our imaginary shop,’ Venetia said.

Father peered at the sketches. ‘Here it is, just as I pictured it!’

‘The wall panelling would be painted in cream with touches of gold so as not to compete with all the colours of the fabric samples,’ she said. ‘A shelf would run around the walls above head-height to display decorative items, and the furniture pattern books would be laid out on satinwood counters for customers to stand and look at them. There’d be sample carpets on the floor.’ She held her breath, eyes fixed on her father’s face while he studied her drawings. He looked tired and older than his fifty years tonight.

Nero jumped up on to his knee and settled down to doze.

At last Father put the book down. ‘You have a gift for this, my darling. You should be working with me, Venetia.’

‘Then why can’t I? I can make as many designs for paper hangings and curtain and upholstery fabrics as you like.’

Father coughed and pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Perhaps it might be possible. I doubt Raffie will follow me into the business. He hasn’t the feel for it.’ He closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair again, his fingers stroking Nero’s silky coat.

Venetia frowned. ‘Father, are you quite well?’

He opened his eyes and gave her a tight little smile. ‘I’m tired after the travelling and my heart flutters a little. But it’s so good to be at Spindrift Cottage again with my family. Nothing matters in this world except family, does it?’

‘You need a drop of brandy.’ Feeling suddenly anxious, she fetched the brandy and poured him a generous measure.

He held the bottle up to the firelight. ‘Nearly finished. I’ll have to speak to my fisherman friends to see when another consignment is expected. I have some curtain silk on order, too.’

Venetia’s pulse steadied as the colour flowed back into Father’s face. Just for a moment she’d been frightened.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking a great deal lately about my old friend John Chamberlaine,’ he said, staring into the fire.

‘The one who died when you were travelling back from Italy?’ She sat down on the rug at her father’s feet and leaned against his knees. She’d heard the story before.

‘After university,’ he said, ‘we spent two years on our Grand Tour. We planned to start up a business together afterwards. In Italy we bought antiques, paintings and artefacts, and sourced the best silks, paper hangings and furniture. Had ’em all shipped home. John acquired a wife, too. But then he developed a putrid inflammation of the lungs and it carried him off. Poor Clarissa! She was completely undone.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She died, too, later on.’

‘Of a broken heart?’

‘Perhaps.’ Father sighed deeply. ‘John and I were only twenty-three and had everything to look forward to. It never occurred to us that we wouldn’t live for ever.’ He reached out and stroked her hair. ‘We should all live each day as if it were our last because we never know when life may be snatched away from us.’

Venetia shivered. This wasn’t at all like Father’s usual blithe manner and she didn’t like it. ‘I wish you’d let me help you with the business. I’m sure I could learn.’

He dropped a kiss on top of her head. ‘I know you could. But there are difficulties.’ He sighed. ‘So many obstacles to overcome.’

‘Because I’m a woman?’

He shrugged. ‘Once clients came to know you, I don’t believe that would signify.’

‘Lovell and Daughter. Don’t you like the sound of that?’

Father laughed. ‘I do.’

‘Well, then?’

‘I’m tired of travelling all over the country and must face up to the fact that I can’t go on doing this alone. I’ve set a plan in motion but it’s too soon to discuss things with you.’

‘What plan?’ Venetia laughed. ‘You’re being very mysterious.’

‘You’ll just have to wait and see. Now I think it’s time for bed.’

 

 

Kitty waited until the household settled before creeping downstairs, boots in hand. As she crossed the hall there was a movement in the shadows.

‘Kitty?’ The master was standing right in front of her.

She clutched her shawl to her throat. What did the old man think he was doing, creeping up on a body like that?

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he murmured. ‘Are you going to the cove?’

She nodded.

‘I have some blue silk damask on order. Will you tell Tom Scott I need another bottle of brandy, too?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she whispered. Thank God, he wasn’t going to punish her. But then, in his own way, he was as guilty as she was.

‘Don’t let me keep you.’

She bobbed a curtsey.

‘And, Kitty?’

She turned, wary again.

‘I’ll leave the key under the mat.’

She closed the back door quietly and slipped on her boots.

Tom was waiting for her at the bottom of the cliffs, with her pa and some of the other fishermen.

‘All right, Kitty?’ asked Pa, his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the wind.

She nodded. ‘And Ma and the little ones?’

He shrugged. ‘Tired. Your ma’s always tired.’

Tom took Kitty’s hand and pulled her out of the wind into the narrow opening of one of the caves. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he planted a quick kiss on her mouth. ‘Soon now,’ he said, nodding towards the sea.

Shivering, she stared into the dark, waiting. Five hours was all it took in calm weather for twelve men to row the forty-foot-long galley from France, laden with brandy, silk shawls and kid gloves. Even with a headwind the boats were faster than any preventative officer’s sailing vessel. ‘Guinea boats’ they called them. Tom had told her that upwards of thirty thousand pounds’ worth of golden guineas couriered from London could be carried to Gravelines or Dunkirk on one trip in payment for the contraband goods that were then smuggled in. Thirty thousand pounds!

Kitty shifted her feet, not liking to think too hard about those guineas being used by Napoleon to feed his army. Sometimes she lay awake, imagining she could hear the sound of Boney’s troops marching up from the beach to invade the town, and felt guilty for her own small part in the trade. But, as Pa said, free trade gave the fishermen a far better living to feed their families on than they could earn from the sea. God knows, they needed it.

Tom pulled her close and blew on her hands to warm them. ‘Better?’ he whispered.

She nodded, even though her fingers were cracked and bleeding from the day’s washing and scrubbing. Tom only let her come and help on unloading nights. The other times were too dangerous, he said. When the guineas arrived from London they were brought under guard. Rough men armed with knives and pistols would line the beach and make sure the cargo wasn’t interfered with, and that any preventative officers who dared show their faces were outnumbered and afraid.

Once, she’d hidden in one of the caves to watch. There’d been a big man in a caped greatcoat standing on the sand, counting the boxes of gold as they were lifted into the galleys. As he’d turned to look up the beach she’d frozen at the sight of his face, with its long nose and hooded eyes that seemed to bore straight into her, but he’d turned away without observing her, leaving Kitty shaky and sweating. They called him King Midas, she knew. He always travelled with armed bodyguards and she felt sick when she saw the moonlight glinting on their firearms. Since poor Jim Staycote had been shot in the face and killed by them, no one had dared cross King Midas.

‘Look!’ whispered Tom.

A low black shape was moving rapidly towards them over the sea; it was soon followed by another. Then, over the sighing of the waves, came the scrape of timber against shingle.

Men swarmed out of the shadows and ran towards the water’s edge.

‘Stay here!’ hissed Tom, and set off to join them.

The bitter wind, damp with sea spray, wormed its way inside Kitty’s clothes, right under her shift. The last thing she needed tonight was to be freezing her innards on a beach. She yawned widely. Burning the candle at both ends, that was the trouble. Up at four to set the washing to soak and light the fires while the rest of the household snored away like pigs, and now she’d be late to bed because of the shipment. Still, she’d be a handful of coins richer when the night was out, a handful of coins closer to being able to leave this god-forsaken village and start a new life in London, where they said the streets were paved with gold.

Women’s voices murmured from the cave to her left; a horse, yoked to a cart in the lee of the cliff, whinnied. Chewing at a broken nail, Kitty anxiously scanned her surroundings for preventative officers. She wasn’t sure which scared her the most: the riding officers or the men from London.

Then Tom was back again and thrusting an armful of damp, canvas-wrapped parcels at her. ‘Ma’s waiting for you,’ he said.

Kitty wrapped half the parcels in her shawl, tied it over her back, and lifted the rest in her arms. Several other women carrying similar burdens trudged past her over the sand. Silvery moonlight lit the way as she climbed the cliff steps. Their uneven risers and the weight of her bundle made Kitty’s legs ache. Stopping halfway, she looked down at the cove and saw that the horse and laden cart were being led away and the men were busy rolling barrels and boxes into the caves. There was a narrow passage leading from them to the cellar of the Admiral’s Arms.

A loose stone rattled over the rocks below. Her belly lurched. A preventative officer? Kitty froze, the bundle in her arms as heavy as a dead child. Nowhere to hide and a sharp stone in her back when she pressed herself against the cliff face. A dark figure lumbered into view. God help me! she prayed. But it was only Danny Hall, breath rasping in his throat as he struggled under the weight of two barrels strapped to his back. She started to climb again, dragging one foot after the other. A stitch bored into her side like a red-hot knitting needle and she didn’t have a hand free to rub it. Jesus God! Would she ever reach the top? Then a gust of wind nearly blasted her off her feet as she emerged on to the summit of the cliff.

Ten minutes later she knocked softly on the back door of Tom’s cottage. Mrs Scott must have been waiting on the step for her because the door opened so quickly Kitty almost fell into the kitchen. Together they rolled back the threadbare rag rug and lifted the trapdoor to the cellar.

Upstairs a child cried and Tom’s ma stood motionless, listening. She was as thin as a lath, her hair drab and lifeless. The child wailed again. ‘I’d better go,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll send Jimmy down.’

Suddenly exhausted, Kitty sank on to the bench and laid her arms on the kitchen table. The scrubbed surface was rough under her cracked fingertips, covered in the thousand cuts and dents inflicted upon it by a family of eleven.

Wet clothes were draped over the rickety clothes-horse standing before the meagre fire. Torn and patched, they were in all sizes, from a baby’s nightgown to Tom’s oiled fishing sweater. Just like Kitty’s own ma, Mrs Scott had produced a baby a year before her husband had drowned in a sudden squall a few months ago. And now Tom, the eldest, was responsible for the whole family.

Kitty fingered one of the canvas-wrapped parcels, imagining the silken shawls inside and wondering what it would be like to feel that slippery softness against her naked skin. Would anyone notice if she filched one out of the parcel and hid it under her shift? But she knew what had happened to others who’d thought like that. Besides, it wasn’t her lot in life to own even a silk handkerchief, only to wash them for those she worked for.

Fourteen-year-old Jimmy came into the kitchen, nodded to her and climbed down the ladder into the cellar.

Silently, she passed the bundles down.

A few moments later Kitty was outside in the cold night air again, hurrying back to the cove. There were two or three more loads yet and weariness made it hard for her to set one foot in front of the other. She was eighteen years old and already half worn out. Tom, with his warm hands and urgent lips, wanted to marry her. Perhaps she loved him, she wasn’t sure, but the thought of living in that cramped cottage with his ma and all his brothers and sisters made Kitty want to cry. Their childhood days of running barefoot over the sand and falling about with laughter as they splashed in the surf seemed a very long time ago.

Wiping her nose on the back of her hand, she set her mind resolutely to the task in hand.

Kitty thumped the buckets on the frozen ground and knocked the ice off the pump handle. Wrapping her hand in her apron against the biting cold of the iron, she grasped the handle and resentfully worked it up and down. The pump gurgled and spewed a dribble of water into the bucket while her breath clouded the air like Mr Lovell’s tobacco smoke.

Heaving the buckets along the path, she shouldered through the scullery door where a heap of muddy boots and the dubbin pot awaited her attention.

‘Kitty!’ Mrs Allnut’s voice called from the kitchen. ‘There’s coal wanted in the parlour before you peel the carrots.’

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and huffed. Was there no let up? What with Christmas coming in a few days, there’d be a goose to pluck, silver to polish and tablecloths to starch. Mr Lovell would be home again on Christmas Eve bringing his washing and his exuberant presence to disturb the smooth running of the household, not to mention the shaving water to be carried upstairs and extra stinking chamber pots to be carried down.

In the fuggy warmth of the parlour Nero snored gently on the hearthrug. Miss Venetia was scribbling in her sketchbook again while the missus lay on the chaise-longue, reading. Neither of them lifted their eyes to look at Kitty as she picked up the coal scuttle. There was something very wrong with the world when some people could laze about all day while others worked their fingers to the bone, she thought. She hurried outside again, the coal scuttle banging against her knee and leaving black smudges on her skirt.

Prising apart frozen lumps of coal with the shovel, she started when a man dressed in black appeared silently beside her. Lifting up the coal shovel, Kitty turned towards him. ‘What are you doing in our garden?’ If she hadn’t been so uneasy, she’d have giggled to see the way that he jumped.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, leaning heavily on his ebony cane. ‘I wonder if your mistress is at home?’

‘You could have knocked at the door like everyone else.’ Her voice sounded tart, too tart to use with a visitor, especially such a handsome one, but he’d made her uneasy.

‘I wasn’t sure if this was the right house,’ he said. His hair was black as soot but his eyes were the blue of the sea on a summer’s day. He smiled and it was like the sun coming out. ‘You can put that down now, I’m not going to hurt you.’

Kitty realised that she was still holding the coal shovel aloft as if ready to batter his brains out. ‘You’re wanting to see Mrs Lovell then?’ Keeping her back ramrod straight, she led him to the front door. ‘I’ll go round and let you in.’

Scurrying back to the kitchen, she called out ‘Visitor!’ to Mrs Allnut, then dragged off her coat and dropped it on the hook before walking briskly through the hall to open the front door.

She took the caller’s coat and hat as if this were the first time they’d met. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Major Chamberlaine,’ he said, pushing his unruly curls into some semblance of order as he spoke.

She opened the parlour door.

Nero opened one eye and growled and the missus put down her book and looked up expectantly. She got bored very easily, did the missus, and was always pleased to have a visitor, even if it was only the curate. ‘Who is it, Kitty?’

‘Major Chamberlaine.’

The book slid off the missus’s knee and hit the floor with a thump. She turned as white as a sheet and her eyes were wide open as she stared out through the door into the hall.

The visitor paused in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Miss Venetia. His shoulders sagged. ‘So it’s true,’ he murmured.

Then he was in the room and Kitty was on the other side of the closed door.

‘Who was it?’ asked Mrs Allnut as Kitty returned to the kitchen.

Kitty shrugged. ‘Just a man. Nice-looking, though.’

‘Not your place to comment, Kitty. Did they ask for tea?’

‘Not yet.’

Mrs Allnut sighed. ‘There’s only stale pound cake and I’m not baking until this afternoon. Did you bank the fire?’

Kitty clamped a hand to her mouth. ‘I left the coal scuttle outside.’

‘Then go and fetch it, sharpish.’ Mrs Allnut opened the larder door and surveyed the shelves. ‘Let’s hope he isn’t staying to dinner,’ she muttered.

Kitty braved the cold and brought the coal scuttle back indoors. What had the visitor meant by, ‘So it’s true’? Her hand was on the parlour door when she heard a shriek from inside the room. Alarmed, she hesitated and then turned the handle quietly and peeped through the gap. She needn’t have worried; no one was looking at her.

The missus was wailing and throwing herself about on the chaise-longue, with Miss Venetia bent over her.

The gentleman, nearly as tall as the low ceiling, stood there in his black velvet coat watching them, with his mouth all pursed up like a cat’s bottom.

At last the missus subsided into sobs with her head resting on Miss Venetia’s shoulder.

Venetia looked up at the gentleman. ‘Please, sir, will you explain more fully what happened?’ Her face was as bleached as new-washed linen.

Major Chamberlaine lifted up his coat tails and perched on the edge of a chair. ‘He was set upon by intruders…’

‘Oh, tell me they didn’t beat him!’ begged the missus, her hands clasped over her breast.

Major Chamberlaine chewed at his lip. ‘They threatened him. When I found him he was pale and his lips were blue. He said his arm hurt. Afterwards, the doctor said that his heart could not withstand the shock of the attack.’

‘But where is he?’ The missus struggled to her feet. ‘I must go to him!’

‘It’s too late, Madam,’ said the gentleman. ‘The snow made road conditions so bad I couldn’t travel immediately and a two-day journey has taken four. We were obliged to bury Mr Lovell before I was able to bring you the news.’

Kitty pressed her knuckles against her mouth. Jesus God! There’d be some changes now and no mistake. She backed silently away, leaving the coal scuttle in the hall, and ran to the kitchen.

‘Whatever is it?’ asked Mrs Allnut. ‘Did you spill the coal?’ She lifted the big soup tureen off the dresser. ‘Well?’

Kitty shook her head. ‘It’s poor Mr Lovell. He’s dead.’

The crash as the tureen hit the stone flags reverberated around the kitchen. Shards of china skittered across the floor, spinning under the dresser and into the pantry.

Slowly, Kitty bent to pick up one of the largest fragments and then another. She ran her thumb over the delicate gold brushwork that curled over the painted surface and pressed the sharp edges together.

But some things can never be mended.

 

 

‘I beg your pardon, Major Chamberlaine,’ Venetia said formally, ‘we haven’t offered you any refreshment after your journey.’ Uttering vacuous social pleasantries was a great deal easier than acknowledging the anguish that made it so hard for her to breathe.

Mama’s weeping subsided into hiccoughing sobs while the stranger watched them intently with cool blue eyes.

‘The news is naturally a great shock to us,’ said Venetia. ‘Do you… did you know my father well, Major Chamberlaine?’

He stood up so abruptly that the chair scraped noisily across the floor. ‘Your father’s lawyer, Mr Tyndall, is outside. We hired a post-chaise for the journey and I asked him to wait until I’d broken the news to you. I’ll fetch him.’

Venetia followed him into the hall and watched him limp down the front steps before she retreated inside. She gripped the newel post while she fought to steady herself then walked with dragging steps to the kitchen.

‘Have you seen Raffie?’ she asked.

Mutely, Mrs Allnut and Kitty shook their heads.

‘Can you bring tea? Four cups, please, since we expect another visitor.’

‘Yes, Miss Venetia.’ Kitty bobbed a curtsey, her pretty face unusually sombre.

‘And if Raffie returns, will you send him in straight away?’

Mama waited for her in the parlour, hunched over on the chaise-longue, her sodden handkerchief balled in one fist. ‘I always knew this day would come, your dear father being ten years older than myself…’ She drew in a ragged breath. ‘But I never expected it would be so soon.’

A moment later Major Chamberlaine and a stout man dressed in sober brown entered the parlour.

‘Miss Venetia Lovell, I presume?’ A few strands of greying hair were carefully brushed forward over the shiny pink dome of Mr Tyndall’s head.

She nodded. ‘And this is my mother.’

Mr Tyndall bowed to Mrs Lovell. ‘I regret the unfortunate circumstances of our meeting, Madam.’

Venetia glanced at Major Chamberlaine. His face was expressionless but his clasped hands clenched and unclenched on the head of his cane as if he were nervous. ‘Will you tell us more about what happened, Mr Tyndall?’ she requested.

‘I met Mr Lovell a week or two before his unfortunate demise, when he came to me to revise his will.’ The lawyer looked at and frowned. ‘He imparted to me certain… delicate information.’

‘Delicate?’ queried Venetia.

Mr Tyndall glanced at Mama, who sobbed and looked away.

Venetia addressed Major Chamberlaine. ‘As this is a family matter perhaps we might ask you to be kind enough to wait in the study?’

Mr Tyndall smiled thinly. ‘This is indeed a private family matter, Miss Lovell, which is why Major Chamberlaine must be present.’

‘Please explain.’ Something nagged at the back of Venetia’s memory. Sitting here in this very room there was something Father had said…

‘The chain of events Mr Lovell described to me began in 1787,’ Mr Tyndall began. ‘He was travelling back from Italy with his friend, John Chamberlaine…’

‘Oh!’ said Venetia as realisation dawned. She turned to Major Chamberlaine. ‘Are you related to my father’s friend John Chamberlaine?’

‘My father.’ There was a brief flash of blue as he glanced at her, before fixing his gaze steadily on the beautifully polished leather of his top boots.

‘As I was saying, they were travelling abroad when John Chamberlaine passed away. Before his friend died, Mr Lovell promised to take care of his friend’s bride.’

‘Clarissa,’ said Venetia. ‘Father mentioned her.’

‘Your father spoke of her to you?’ said Mama, her voice suddenly shrill.

‘Perhaps what he didn’t tell you,’ said Major Chamberlaine, in equally sharp tones, ‘was that Mr Lovell married Clarissa when it became apparent that she was expecting his friend’s child. Myself, in fact.’

‘Married her?’ Venetia looked at Mama. ‘You never told me that Father was a widower when he married you.’

Mama dabbed her eyes and moaned softly.

Mr Tyndall cleared his throat. ‘It’s my duty, Miss Lovell, to apprise you of a certain situation.’ His mouth folded into a prim line but there was an anticipatory gleam in his eyes that made a tremor of alarm shiver up Venetia’s spine.

‘What is it?’

‘I have to inform you that Mrs Lovell, Mrs Clarissa Lovell, that is, unfortunately passed away eighteen months ago.’

Venetia stared at him. ‘You’ve made a mistake. My mother and father have been married for twenty-three years. Clarissa must have died twenty-four years ago.’

Major Chamberlaine stood up abru. . .