A Bachelor Establishment Read online

  ‘Oh, Elinor, when I think back to That Night …’

  Mrs Bascombe’s face quivered. Porlock put down his tray and waited quietly to see if he would be needed, but she recovered almost instantly.

  Lady Elliott continued. ‘It was all so long ago and yet still … Will things never be resolved?’

  ‘How can they be until George returns? And if he ever does then he’s a fool. Robbery and murder? How can he ever set foot in England again?’

  Silence filled the room, for this was a long-held bone of contention between them. Whilst Lady Elliott agreed that it had been Elinor’s duty to remain at Westfield in the aftermath of her husband’s death, she maintained on every occasion possible, that now the estate was showing a small profit, her friend could consider herself released from any obligations thereto and re-join the world.

  Mrs Bascombe, whose meagre portion had long since been swallowed up in the vast maw of her husband’s debts, and who now had barely a penny to her name, could not agree. To move to London, or more probably Bath, would indeed be agreeable. Bath, with its wide society and sparkling social life was very tempting to a lady who had barely stirred from this neighbourhood in nearly twenty years. No one was more conscious than Mrs Bascombe that the best years of her life were long behind her; gone beyond recall. Financial necessity had obliged her to remain at Westfield. Social convention kept her there and, as she sometimes admitted to herself in the small hours, fear prevented her leaving. These days, Westfield was a very comfortable place and she was highly regarded by neighbours and friends. She sometimes wondered what would happen to her should George, or more likely, George’s heir, return to claim his inheritance. Then, obliged to leave her home, her future would be bleak indeed, for Mrs Bascombe had no intention of remaining at Westfield, dependent upon the kindness of strangers. She had been her own mistress, and mistress of Westfield for too long. No, in the unlikely event of George or his heir appearing to claim their own, she would go quietly, but where to and how she would live were subjects she could not contemplate without strong misgivings. The best she could hope for was that a small cottage might be found for her somewhere on the estate, where she could live quietly with her friend, Miss Fairburn; their social circle restricted to those who cared enough to visit two ladies living precariously on the fringes of genteel poverty.

  She was unaware of how much of this showed on her face. Lady Elliott reached over to take her hand and Porlock, without being asked, gently placed a small glass of wine before her.

  ‘My dear,’ said Lad Elliott softy, ‘your friends will never allow that to happen.’

  Mrs Bascombe nodded, somewhat blindly, because the offer was kindly meant and no one, not even Miss Fairburn, knew how unacceptable it would be to her.

  The silence was broken by Porlock, softly observing that he believed Miss Fairburn had returned.

  Lady Elliott stayed long enough to enquire after Miss Fairburn’s health and that of her family, for, in addition to a naturally kind heart and a genuine interest, she had been bred up always to be civil to those in less fortunate circumstances than herself.

  Miss Fairburn, the oldest daughter in a large and cheerful family from Oxfordshire, had long since realised her duty to her family meant stepping aside for younger and prettier sisters. She had accepted this with some sadness of spirit, but without rancour, foreseeing that her future role was that of maiden aunt. Before this hideous fate could come to pass however, she had received a letter from Mrs Bascombe, a friend of her childhood, offering her the position of companion and, should it ever be required, chaperone. Relieved of the guilt incurred by living upon the goodwill of members of her family, no matter how kindly meant, she had no hesitation in accepting a position to live at Westfield with her friend.

  Mrs Bascombe was congenial company and Westfield today was both comfortable and well run. Like her friend, she too often wondered what the future would hold for her when the day came – as it surely would – when they had to leave Westfield. If Mrs Bascombe no longer required, or more likely, could not afford her services, then, she supposed, it would mean returning to her family and caring for her elderly mother and her many nieces and nephews. She occasionally wondered about becoming a paid companion to another lady, but knew in her heart that no matter how liberal the household, nor how easy-going the mistress, she would never be lucky enough to find another Westfield. She was a prudent woman, however, and her living expenses proving very small, she had put away as much as she could against the day when she and Elinor would find themselves adrift in the world.

  After Lady Elliott’s departure, Mrs Bascombe lost no time in acquainting Miss Fairburn with the events of the morning. Unlike Lady Elliott, however, Miss Fairburn was entrusted with the whole story. At its conclusion, she contemplated her friend with expressions of amusement, concern, dismay, and astonishment all flitting, one after the other, across her face.

  ‘Elinor …’ she said, half laughing, half appalled. ‘I leave you for one morning … was he hurt at all?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said her friend, honestly. ‘If he was, it certainly didn’t prevent him expressing himself with great fluency. And volume.’

  ‘He must have been very much displeased.’

  ‘Beautifully understated, my dear Laura. He was very much displeased. Displeased to the extent of offering me bodily harm.’

  Miss Fairburn stopped smiling. ‘Well, I suppose one could say he abandoned any pretensions to the title of “gentleman” some years ago. I wish I had been there.’

  ‘My dear, by that time he practically had Rufus’ hoof-prints across his chest. And on his own land, too. There is perhaps some excuse.’

  Miss Fairburn would have none of it.

  Perversely, Mrs Bascombe felt compelled to defend his absent lordship. ‘Whilst not condoning his behaviour in any way, my own was not above reproach. And no harm was done, except perhaps to Lord Ryde’s dignity. Lady Elliott has been advising me to remain within our own grounds during his visit, which we hope will be a very fleeting one. Masters is calling tomorrow and with a list of items for discussion that must be almost as long as my arm. By the time I emerge from our meeting it will be next week at least and his lordship will be gone. Which reminds me – do you know which room Mrs Stokesley has allocated Mr Masters? He will have it that it is improper to stay here, but I think, given his – and our – advancing years, no scandal could possibly be brewed, even by our own enthusiastic rumour-mongers, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Oh yes. And he a happily married man these last thirty ears. How can people gossip so?’

  ‘In this sedate part of the world, what else is there to do? Apart from Sir William Elliott, you and I appear to be the only people here with more tasks than time.’

  ‘How true. Mr Masters will be in the Green Room, by the way. Far enough away from the defenceless ladies, but still actually in the main body of the house as befits his trusted position. As usual, Mrs Stokesley and Porlock have it exactly right. What time does he arrive tomorrow?’

  ‘Quite early, I believe. Certainly before eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Oh, Elinor, what a shame. Roberts informs me the weather is set fair for at least the next three days and you’ll be stuck inside.’

  ‘Ah well, it can’t be helped. And our discussions are so much more pleasant these days. Imagine – we actually discus the allocation of profits, such as they are, rather than plotting how to delude and distract our creditors. You cannot imagine how pleasant that is. So, tell me, how do the Misses Crosby do?’

  Lady Elliott visited several times over the next week to share news and gossip about the newcomers over tea and cakes. Initially, hopes had been high that his lordship meant to settle at last. He had sent for his agent, an understandably depressed and dispirited man named Reynolds, and after the meeting, Reynolds had scuttled away with armfuls of papers and a harried expression. It transpired, however, in the way things mysteriously get around, that Lord Ryde was enduring the hardships of
his family home only to ensure that every last possible penny possible could be wrung from his neglected estate.

  ‘What a shame,’ remarked Mrs Bascombe, helping Lady Elliott to another slice of cake. ‘Although, when I … encountered … him, he was actually inspecting a ditch.’

  ‘Looking for loose change, perhaps,’ suggested Miss Fairburn, acidly.

  Miss Fairburn was a tall, slender woman with dark hair and eyes and a long, clever face, and might have been formed to provide a complete contrast to her friend, the shorter, plumper, fair-haired Mrs Bascombe. This contrast manifested itself further in their natures. Miss Fairburn was never anything other than calm, collected, and quiet, while Mrs Bascombe fizzed with barely suppressed energy from morning to night. Energy denied a natural outlet has to go somewhere and Mrs Bascombe’s manifested itself, as Sir William had correctly guessed, in headlong gallops around the countryside. Gallops during which, Mrs Bascombe sometimes thought, it would be no bad thing if she followed her husband’s example and broke her own neck.

  Sir William entertained respect and affection for his wife’s friend and only the conviction that George Bascombe would never reappear and Mrs Bascombe would be allowed to live out her days in peaceful seclusion at Westfield kept him from making his concerns known to his wife.

  At eleven the next morning, Mrs Bascombe awaited the arrival of her agent, Masters, a cautious and taciturn man, traditional in his values, who deplored everything modern. He bowed low, for he had an admiration for Mrs Bascombe, and she for him. Mr Masters, meeting Mrs Bascombe for the first time many years ago, found himself having to revise his previously unflattering opinion of women in business very quickly indeed, and given the condition of the estate, Mrs Bascombe’s opinion of him had been no better. Each soon realised they had misjudged the other and a profitable partnership was born from that moment. She knew better than to distract him with pleasantries and after a brief enquiry as to the health of his wife and family, seated herself at the long table in the library and pulled the first of her papers towards her.

  Considerably improved the estate may have been, but it seemed there were still a hundred thousand things to discuss, mull over, plan for, make provision for, veto, or set in hand. For three days they laboured, until finally, each pronounced themselves satisfied with the progress made. Gathering up his papers, Masters declined any offers of further hospitality, citing pressure of business and promised to let her have the appropriate documents for signature within seven days. They parted as amiably as ever and Mrs Bascombe, suddenly found herself at liberty. For a second she hesitated; Mrs Stokesley, the housekeeper, had been petitioning for a review of the contents of the linen cupboards, but the sun was shining – who knew for how long?

  Mrs Bascombe changed into her riding habit without feeling the need to trouble Tiller in any way, and using the back stairs, guiltily made her way to the stables. She was not, however, as deaf to Lady Elliott’s pleas as she had appeared, and presently flew from the stable yard, admittedly at top speed, but this time accompanied by her groom, Roberts.

  She had no clear intention of going as far as the sand dunes, but once there, it seemed a shame not to venture onto the sands themselves. A stiff wind blew onshore and foamy white breakers crashed onto the glistening sand. Spray flew and she could taste the salt on her lips.

  Rufus snorted impatiently, for he knew what was coming next. Mrs Bascombe and her groom eyed each other for a moment and then each urged their horse forwards. Neck and neck they plunged through shallow water, racing flat out. Both horses stretched their necks and lengthened their stride, flying across the wet sand and splashing through pools of sea water. Exhilaration coursed through her veins as she felt the wind, sea, and wet sand in her face. Faster and faster, the two horses thundered across the deserted shore. A few rare minutes of freedom. Of fun.

  All too soon, she was pulling up. The horses dropped to a canter, then a walk, while everyone got their breath back. Beside her, Roberts was wiping his face. Guiltily aware of what Lady Elliott would say if only she could see her now, Mrs Bascombe attempted the same with a very inadequate handkerchief. She was conscious that her hair had again escaped its restraints and her habit was liberally splattered with wet sand and foam. Her hem was sodden to a good six inches.

  ‘I must look like a gypsy,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Ah,’ said Roberts, refusing to comment.

  They left the beach, picking their way back through the dunes to pick up Green Lane, which would eventually lead back to her own property on the western side and Lord Ryde’s to the east. Mrs Bascombe was fully occupied in restoring her appearance, tucking in her hair and brushing the worst of the sand from her habit and so did not notice the oncoming riders.

  ‘Ah,’ said Roberts, by way of directing her attention.

  ‘Oh, da – dear,’ said Mrs Bascombe. Having spent the last three days closeted with her agent, the presence of Lord Ryde had slipped her mind.

  ‘Mm,’ said Roberts, varying his conversational range.

  Lord Ryde, meanwhile had also perceived that he and Mr Martin were Not Alone.

  ‘Brace yourself, Charles,’ he muttered to his companion.

  Mr Martin had already made an informed guess as to the identity of the oncoming riders and permitted himself a small smile of anticipation.

  Mrs Bascombe found herself at a loss. There was no doubt that however unconventional their first meeting had been, they had met. Was it more or less rude to pass by in silence? Or essay a frigid nod of acknowledgement but nothing more, indicating a disinclination to further intercourse? Or exchange polite greetings as if nothing had happened? Since she still perceived herself to be the wronged party, she was conscious of a strong feeling that nothing less than his lordship hurling himself from his horse and abasing himself on the ground at her feet would be adequate.

  A slight cough from Roberts recalled her from this pleasant picture. Both gentlemen had politely pulled to the side of the lane and halted. Mrs Bascombe drew level. The gentlemen touched their hats. Mrs Bascombe inclined her head, regally. Another three strides and she should be safe. Slightly behind his lordship, Mr Martin struggled to keep a straight face. Roberts, who like all good servants knew everything and said nothing, stared woodenly between his horse’s ears. Mrs Bascombe met his lordship’s eyes. The moment was pregnant.

  ‘Mrs Bascombe, I presume. How do you do, ma’am?’

  Mrs Bascombe was interested to note he had apparently gone to the trouble of discovering her identity. So much for any hope of remaining anonymous.

  ‘Lord Ryde; I believe we are neighbours.’

  ‘So I understand,’ he assented gravely.

  Silence fell

  ‘May I introduce Mr Charles Martin, ma’am? Charles, this is Mrs Bascombe, of whom you heard me speak, not briefly, the other day.’

  Mrs Bascombe, who had been eyeing Mr Martin with some curiosity, was unable to shake hands, but smiled warmly upon him instead. As Lord Ryde had, at their first meeting, been at a loss to place her, so did Mr Martin puzzle Mrs Bascombe. Unlike his lordship, carelessly but expensively dressed, Mr Martin’s attire was quiet and modest, but his horse was good. She liked his square-set, open face, and his unruly curls. His brown eyes twinkled mischievously as he responded gravely to her greeting.

  Returning her attention to his lordship, she prepared to be provocative.

  ‘I am relieved to see you recovered, my lord. I feared after so severe an accident that you would be laid upon your bed for some time. Is it wise to be up and about so soon?’

  ‘I thank you for your concern, madam, but I am not so aged and infirm as you apparently believe.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, affably. ‘You couldn’t be.’

  Mr Martin assumed an intent survey of the horizon.

  ‘Although, had I known you were abroad, madam, I might well have thought twice before venturing forth. One cannot be too careful.’

  ‘Not at your age, no.’

  His lords
hip, who had once or twice considered how to apologise for his behaviour without in any way revealing himself to be familiar with her past history, once again cast good manners and breeding to the four winds.

  ‘May I ascribe the fact that the countryside does not appear to be littered with your victims, to your having brought your groom along to help you control your horse?’

  ‘No, you may not,’ she replied imperturbably. ‘You may ascribe his presence to Lady Elliott’s belated warning as to the imprudence of riding alone these days.’

  ‘You amaze me, ma’am. I had not supposed you so timid. My understanding is that this is one of the safest neighbourhoods in the county.’

  ‘Until last week, sir, you would have been perfectly correct. You are, however, behind the times. How sad it is when one is no longer able to keep abreast of current events.’

  ‘Being usually at the centre of current events, ma’am, I have no need to keep abreast.’

  Although he could tell that both protagonists were thoroughly enjoying themselves, Mr Martin thought it wise to intervene.

  ‘Fine weather for the time of year, do you not agree, Mrs Bascombe?’

  He was rewarded with another brilliant smile.

  His lordship did not grind his teeth.

  ‘Very pleasant,’ she agreed. ‘One is certainly tempted to take every opportunity to enjoy it.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been doing?’ demanded Lord Ryde, surveying her still somewhat dishevelled appearance. ‘One would have supposed you to have been working in a ditch.’

  ‘As opposed to actually jumping into one?’ retorted Mrs Bascombe, her own good resolutions melting like so much snow in the August sun.

  ‘You must not allow us to keep you standing, ma’am. I know how difficult it is for you to control your horse.’

  Rufus, who had been standing like a rock throughout the entire conversation, looked somewhat surprised.

  Sensitive as always to comments about her horse, Mrs Bascombe stiffened and was about to utter a blistering reply when several things happened at once. Something large stirred from behind the hedge, prompting a bird to erupt noisily from the tangled greenery. The bird shot diagonally across the lane, almost under Rufus’s nose, uttering a harsh call of alarm as it did so.