Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

The Vizegrafin made no answer. Harriet turned in her chair a little to look out of the window to her left and took a delicate sip from her coffee cup. ‘Your father came here while Lord Greta was still master of much of these lands, did he not? Do you know why Lord Greta turned rebellious?’

The Vizegrafin’s gaze flickered up from the table-top and she examined Mrs Westerman. ‘Indeed, I understand my father was acquainted with Lord Greta, though he was a far poorer man at that time. I believe that Lord Greta was a friend of the Pretender during his childhood in France. Greta was also a Catholic, so when he received word that the Rebellion was being planned, he chose to support his friend and his faith.’

‘And he rode from his home at Derwent Water, Gutherscale Hall?’

‘He did. He never returned here again.’

‘What happened exactly?’

The Vizegrafin found, as many had before, that Mrs Westerman could be a persistent questioner. There was no dignified way to remove herself from the conversation, and perhaps thinking of the wrongs of men sixty years ago was more pleasant than thinking of her son’s behaviour and its effect on their reputation in Keswick, so she continued, ‘When the Rebellion failed, he was taken to London to stand trial in Westminster Hall. Most thought the King would spare his life, but when it became clear that his wife and friends’ appeals were not softening the King’s resolve to have him executed, Lady Greta managed to smuggle him out of the Tower. He reached his friends and his younger brother in Paris.’

‘That is a romantic tale.’

The Vizegrafin smiled, and for the first time Harriet saw something more than coquettishness in her eyes. She saw intelligence, and amusement shimmer briefly there, like quartz lost in a cloudy pool.

‘The trouble with our human lives is they do not conclude neatly where a dramatist would leave off. Is that not so, Mrs Westerman?’

Harriet turned gracefully and set down her coffee cup.

‘I have often thought so,’ she replied. ‘So Lord Greta’s later life was less romantic?’

The Vizegrafin nodded slowly. ‘He had a child in the forties, then found himself called to the Young Pretender’s side in forty-five. His wife reminded him of his debt to her, and for her sake and that of the child he did not go, but instead trusted his brother with his money and the power of his name. Of course, as you know, the second Rebellion went no better in the end than the first. His brother was taken and did not escape the executioner’s axe. It was said the guilt and grief made Lord Greta bitter to his family and he drank them all into poverty.’

Harriet nodded, then tilting her head to one side asked, ‘So how did your father come to own so much of Lord Greta’s former estate?’

The Vizegrafin’s face became set again and she straightened her back. ‘The estates were forfeit to the Crown after Lord Greta’s trial in sixteen. My father was in a position to make a number of purchases over the years from those estates. He bought the last of the land in forty-seven when he became Lord Keswick.’

Harriet was still wearing her most engaging smile, and despite the sudden chill in the air was inclined to continue her enquiries; however, just as she opened her mouth to speak again, the door was opened and Miss Scales was announced. They hardly had time to greet each other, when the hall bell clanged again, and there was another voice in the house.

The words were not clear but the voice suggested distress. The door to the breakfast parlour sprang open and Harriet saw in the doorway the beautiful Austrian lady who had been looking for her father the previous evening. She was pale and her hair very loosely arranged. She looked at the company and flushed.

‘Oh, he is not here! I must see him!’

Harriet got to her feet and stepped round the table to take her arm. The young woman’s weight fell into her side almost at once.

‘Fraulein Hurst? I am Harriet Westerman — my son’s tutor told me your name. Is it he you have come to seek? Dear girl, what on earth is the matter?’

Harriet looked into her face; she was quite lovely even with her eyes reddened. Miss Hurst shook her head and tried to hold herself more upright.

‘My father has not returned to the Royal Oak. I went walking early, and was sure I would meet him at breakfast, but the servants say his bed was not slept in. I am most concerned. I must speak to von Bolsenheim.’

‘To Felix?’ Harriet said.

The Vizegrafin’s chair scraped back. ‘As you see, Fraulein, my son is not here, and I do not know in what manner you think he might assist you if he were.’

‘You are the Vizegrafin von Bolsenheim?’

‘My dear girl,’ said Harriet, trying to steer her to a chair, ‘you can barely stand. Do sit down!’

She resisted. ‘Then I shall leave him a note.’

Crowther, apparently unalarmed by the sudden drama, fetched quill and paper from one of the side-tables and set them in front of the young woman — then watched her curiously.

‘Danke, Mein Herr,’ she said under her breath, then sat and began to write. Miss Scales was examining her pocket-watch and frowning.

‘I am surprised no message has been sent to you as yet, Miss Hurst. The morning is almost gone indeed. Is your father a great walker? Might he have become lost on the fells during the storm?’

The girl shook her head without looking up from her hurried writing. ‘He is not fond of walking.’ She folded her note then looked about her as if in hopes of finding some way to seal it. The Vizegrafin put out her jewelled hand.

‘Fraulein, if you wish to leave a note for my son, you may leave it unsealed. He has no secrets from me.’

The girl’s dark eyes flashed, and staring into the Vizegrafin’s face she ripped the note in two and pushed the scraps into her pockets. ‘But I may, I think. I must find my father. Will no one help me?’

Miss Scales put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders. ‘Dear girl, of course we shall help you.’

The Vizegrafin said something in German, and the Fraulein flinched. Crowther had heard the word before, but only in the darkest and dirtiest alleyways of Wittenberg. He turned to his sister.

‘Margaret!’

The Vizegrafin swept from the room. Harriet stared at Crowther, who merely tightened his lips in reply.

The departure of the Vizegrafin had put new breath into the Fraulein’s body. ‘I must go and look for my father! He must be searched for, but I have no money and the landlord says I must leave if the bill cannot be paid today.’

Miss Scales’s hands fluttered into the air. ‘Now dear, do not despair,’ she said, letting one hand fall on the young girl’s shoulder. ‘You shall come to my father’s house — he is the vicar here, you know — and we shall arrange everything from there. Mrs Westerman will tell Mr Felix you called for him, I am sure. Now do you think you might come back to the vicarage with me? I am sure Mrs Briggs would press you to stay, were she here. .’

Harriet interrupted her. ‘Mrs Briggs has just taken the carriage into Keswick. I do believe, Miss Scales, she meant to call on you as she returned.’

‘We said we would speak today about the burial of your poor ghost, though I thought we had arranged to meet here. My mistake, I am sure. Well, his grave is almost ready and may he rest more comfortably there. I should have remembered, but then I would have missed the pleasure of a jog along the lake.’

Miss Hurst stood up a little shakily.

‘Oh my dear, do come back to the vicarage with me. Then you shall be closer to the village when news of your father arrives, and we may rouse up some fellows to go and search for him.’