Death at Bishop's Keep (27 page)

“Apology ain't necess'ry, mum,” she said, looking back at Miss Ardleigh with narrowed eyes. Apologize? What mistress ever apologized to a servant? It wasn't in the nature of things.

“I fear that it is necessary,” Miss Ardleigh said, “even though my words are embarrassing to me and perhaps to you. I find that I must resume management of the household. It is clear to me now, and should have been before this, that my sister is ill-suited to the task of mistress. For yielding up my responsibilities without considering the possible consequences for all of us, I apologize. For her abuse of your rights, I most sincerely apologize.”

“Oh, mum!” Harriet burst out passionately, and then bit her lip with a sideways glance at Cook. Mrs. Pratt gave the girl a cold stare, but it was Miss Ardleigh she was angry with. Did she think that by sweeping in here like the Queen herself and dosing them with a spoonful of sweet talk, she could change what had happened—not just last evening, but last spring, when Jenny was turned out? Did she think she could win them over, could erase the memory of those terrible hurts with an easy smile or two? Well, there was more in Mrs. Pratt's heart and mind than Miss Ardleigh knew, if
that's
what she thought!

“From now on,” Miss Ardleigh said, “you are to take your direction from me.” She looked around at the cheerless room, the cold stone floor, the fireplace absent of fire. “We will begin by restoring the furnishings to this room. Where were they taken?”

“To ... to the attic, mum,” Mrs. Pratt said, blinking.

“Good,” Miss Ardleigh replied. “Please have them returned, and the carpet, and see if another chair or two can be found.” She shivered. “And unblock the fireplace. It is far too cold in this room to comfortably enjoy your leisure hours here.”

Mrs. Pratt allowed herself a small flare of triumph at the thought of the return of the sofa, while Harriet and Nettie seemed nearly overwhelmed at the prospect of a restored fire
and
a carpet. Pocket shifted his feet, grinning.

Miss Ardleigh continued. “Cook, my sister clearly exceeded her authority yesterday when she requested your notice. I do hope you will consent to remain with us.”

Mrs. Pratt swallowed. The situation, which had boggled the brain to start with, was becoming curiouser and curiouser.

“That is settled, then,” Aunt Sabrina said. She smiled. “You and I will meet this morning to discuss meals, pantry stores, and so forth, and you will acquaint me with any new procedures you have instituted for managing the kitchen. Mudd, you will please inform me about the current state of household accounts, the distribution of responsibilities among the upstairs help, and the state of the grounds.”

Mrs. Pratt saw Mudd's eyebrows shoot up and he opened his mouth to speak. But she gave him the slightest shake of her head, and he closed his mouth again.

Miss Ardleigh regarded him curiously for a moment. When he said nothing, she looked around the table, her eyes resting on each one in turn. “In the meantime,” she said, “I hope that each of you will accept my thanks for your patience and forbearance. Our household can only run smoothly if we all do our proper parts. I will do mine, I assure you.”

That was too much for Amelia. “Bless ye, mum,” she said fervently.

Mrs. Pratt cleared her throat sternly, and Amelia had the grace to blush. She always was a forward chit, giving herself airs, putting herself above her station. But even Nettie looked as if she were ready to dance, and Pocket's grin fair split his face. Mrs. Pratt supposed that the younger ones couldn't be blamed for being bamboozled. She herself had heard similar promises before, although not to the extent of returning the fire and the sofa. After the sad business with Jenny, Miss Ardleigh had personally promised that she would rein Jaggers in. But nothing had come of it then, and Mrs. Pratt wasn't going to hold her breath until something came of it now. Anyway, Mrs. Pratt reminded herself murderously, it was Jaggers who should be here apologizing, not the mistress.

Miss Ardleigh smiled. “That will be all, then,” she said. “We will have guests for luncheon, Cook—an additional four, I believe. Please see me”—she unclipped her watch and consulted it—“in the library an hour from now, with suggestions for the menu.” Gathering up her skirts, she swept from the room, her niece behind.

The other servants finished the cold breakfast and left to be about their work, chattering about the prospect of increased daily rations and the exciting prospect—although Miss Ardleigh had not mentioned it—of being released from compulsory prayers. Only Mrs. Pratt and Mudd were left, staring at one another from opposite ends of the table. There was a long silence.

“She'll have t' be told about the accounts,” Mudd said. He shook his head with a dark look. “She's not goin' t' be 'appy. An' Jaggers is like t' be furious.”

“Let her be,” Mrs. Pratt said, bleakly smug. “Let her get wot's comin' to her for diddlin'. Little enough, a'ter what she's done.” Mrs. Pratt and Mudd had suspected for some months that Jaggers was manipulating the household accounts, but it was only in the last few days that Mudd had confirmed their suspicions through some adroit backward checking. “I figger she knows we know ‘bout th' accounts, anyway,” she added, draining her coffee. “That's why she come on so sharp yesterday, threat'nin' to sack me. Left to herself, Mudd, ye'd be nex' t' go a'ter me.”

“What do yer suppose ‘as come o'er the mistress, takin' things into ‘er own 'ands?” Mudd asked. Reflectively, he ate the last crust of toast. “D'ye think there'll be jam on th' table, an' beer, now that she's runnin' th' manor agin?”

“Dunno,” Mrs. Pratt said blackly, “an' don't care. A bit o' jam won't heal what's hurt.” She banged her cup on the saucer. She could not help herself. Un-Christian as it was, a poisonous rage, bitter as bile, rose inside her when she thought about Jaggers.

Mudd was thoughtful. “Not t' put too fine a point on't, Mrs. P., but ain't it time t' turn the other cheek?”

“Jam and fire don't go far wi‘me,” Mrs. Pratt said, from the depths of her wounded spirit. “Who knows wot's hidden in Miss Ardleigh's heart? She didn't raise a hand to help poor Jenny, nor e'en offered to help her find a place, which she culd've done.”

Mudd stood up. “Well, I fer one,” he announced, “am ready t' let bygones be bygones.”

Mrs. Pratt glared at him. “Fine fer ye, Mudd. But fer me, Miss Ardleigh is guilty as Jaggers. Both of ‘em deserves wotev'r they git. I only hope it kin be
me
wot dishes it out.”

“We must leave the family's skeletons to rattle in the dusty dark.”

—ANONYMOUS “A Mother's Plot,” 1887

 

 

 

K
ate never knew exactly what went on between Aunt Jaggers and Aunt Sabrina in the library that morning. When Aunt Sabrina dismissed her, she went first to the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Pratt, who was sweeping the floor with an amazing energy.

“Don't know, 'm sure,” she said snappishly, when Kate had asked her about the brown felt hat.

“I felt,” Kate pressed, “that I had seen the hat before. I recalled the young man who came visiting last evening—Torn Potter. He had such a hat.”

Mrs. Pratt stopped sweeping, her face pulled into a scowl. “If yer thinkin' ‘twas Tom Potter who came skulkin' roun' the libr'ry, miss, yer wrong.”

“But he has reason to dislike—”

“Aye, he has that,” Mrs. Pratt said firmly. “But he ain't the sort t' descend t' skulkin'. Me word on't.”

And that, for the moment at least, seemed to be that. Although Kate sensed that there was a great deal more to be learned, she was not going to get it out of Mrs. Pratt. She took a basket and scissors and went out into the mild, bright morning to cut flowers for the luncheon table's centerpiece.

After the night's rain, the asters and roses were bedraggled, but Kate had no difficulty finding more than enough. As she filled her basket, she was frankly glad that Aunt Sabrina had not asked her to attend the meeting with Aunt Jaggers. However Jaggers had managed to extort control of the household, it was an authority she valued and she would not easily yield it up. The confrontation between the two aunts was bound to be a painful one, embroidered with old bitterness and—Kate felt sure—laced with ancient secrets. Kate would have liked to know those secrets, but she was glad to be spared the pain of learning them.

And there was the earlier meeting with all the servants to mull over. While her aunt had talked, Kate had observed their faces and had been surprised to observe that not all were equally delighted with Aunt Sabrina's announcement. Amelia, Nettie, Harriet, and Pocket seemed quite pleased, especially at the prospect of gaining a few creature comforts and perhaps a bit more leisure. Mudd, however, had seemed perturbed at Aunt Sabrina's request that he bring her the household accounts. Why?

Kate frowned and clipped a pink rose, still heavy with raindrops. She dropped it into her basket. Was there something about the accounts that Mudd did not want to reveal? Kate's first thought, for Mudd's reaction fitted neatly into a scenario that Beryl Bardwell was considering for “The Conspiracy of the Golden Scarab,” was that Mudd himself had been mishandling the household funds and feared to be found out. If true, Kate thought regretfully, it was a pity. In spite of their initial difficulties, she had come to like him.

And she liked Mrs. Pratt, too. But the cook had been even less pleased than the butler by Aunt Sabrina's announcement—which was very odd, Kate thought. She had expected Aunt Jaggers's downfall to bring a smile of triumphant vindication to Mrs. Pratt's face. But in actual fact, her expression had grown blacker and blacker while Aunt Sabrina was talking, until she looked like a summer thunderstorm. It was as if her anger was focused on both the sisters.

No, it was more than anger, Kate thought. It was hatred she had seen in Mrs. Pratt's eyes. It could only be because of Jenny Blyly—which brought up Tom Potter and the brown felt hat.

Kate shook her head, frowning. The belowstairs situation was clearly complicated, woven through with as much anger and bitterness as that upstairs. Aunt Sabrina would do what she could, but perhaps the problem could not be solved with the simple removal of Aunt Jaggers. She looked toward the French doors onto the terrace, open to the mild morning, and wondered what her aunts were saying to each other in the library. As she did, someone hurriedly pulled the doors shut. Whatever was being said, her aunts did not wish to be overheard.

“If the desire to kill and the opportunity to kill come always together, who would escape hanging?”

—MARK TWAIN

 

 

 

S
abrina turned from the doors. “And
that,
sister,” she said with a bleak emphasis, “is all there is to it. Now you must make of it what you will.”

Bernice felt as if she were choking on the rage that was roaring like an inferno inside. “How can you ... how can you
dare
to insult me so?” she cried, struggling for words. “How can you—”

“I can, because I have right on my side,” Sabrina said simply. “You will no longer direct the servants, and you are to accept the presence of our niece without question.” She went to stand beside her desk.

“Right!” Bernice exclaimed. Her voice rose. “After what you did?” She laughed bitterly. “When society knows, you will be completely ostracized. Your name will be destroyed. And
their
names and their future—”

“I am quite prepared to confront my fate,” Sabrina said. Her voice was quiet, expressionless. “And I am prepared to allow the others concerned to meet their own. But if society learns of this, it will only be because you have recklessly spread it abroad.” She reached down and picked up a letter opener in the shape of a dagger, turning it in her hand. “When you do that, Bernice, you will no longer have a home at Bishop's Keep. For the rest of your days, you will live in a rented flat, subsisting on your widow's pension.”

Bernice stared at her sister. “You would not turn me out penniless!” Her throat felt raw, lacerated with the pain of pent-up fury.

“I shall,” Sabrina replied, “if you force me to do so.” Her face was a mask. Only her gray eyes held life, a suppressed, flashing energy—charged, it seemed to Bernice, with a malicious hatred. “It appears, sister,” she added icily, “that we have reached an impasse. If you destroy me and mine, I shall destroy you, quite utterly.”

The last words echoed in the silent room, in the empty hollow that had been Bernice's heart. Sabrina had gained the upper hand.

“It is the Irishwoman,” Bernice muttered blackly. “She is the one who has turned you against me. Before she came—”

“Bernice!” Sabrina whirled around. “It is absurd to cast recriminations on anyone but yourself.” Her voice vibrated, only just in control. “Or on me. If I had not allowed you to—”

“Spare me your self-pity,” Bernice cried, the taste of loathing acrid on her tongue. “When you feel the full brunt of society's censure, then you can blame yourself. And pity him, whose career you will have—”

Her face suffused with furious color, Sabrina raised the hand that held the dagger. Bernice flinched. But she was maddened with anger. She could not stop her words.

“—Whose career in the church you will have utterly ruined.”

“No more,” Sabrina cried, knuckles white around the hilt of the dagger, forearm quivering with murderous violence. “Get out of my sight, Bernice! And stay out, for I cannot promise that I will be able to control this arm!”