Imogen Robertson: Island of Bones

‘Yet we are fortunate. Graves and Mrs Service have to allow parties of ladies and gentlemen through Thornleigh Hall half the days of the week and watch them examining the floorboards for bloodstains.’

‘Let them lock the gates then.’

‘Crowther,’ Harriet said, ‘how could they? It is their duty to be stared at.’

Crowther’s further thoughts on the troubles suffered by the Earl of Sussex’s family were lost as the door to the salon opened and Mrs Heathcote entered with a letter on a tray. She presented it to the gentleman rather abruptly. Mrs Heathcote had been housekeeper of Caveley since its purchase, and regarded both Mrs Westerman and her sister as a good pair of girls who only needed proper managing. It was a sign that he was accepted almost as part of the family that she now regarded Mr Crowther in a similar light.

‘There we have found you, Mr Crowther! An express arrived for you and Hannah thought you would have come here, you having left your own house in such a temper, and so she has brought it along. I would offer you coffee, but it has such a stimulating effect. Perhaps you had better have some of Miss Rachel’s Nerve Drops until you are in a better humour. Now, will you take your dinner here, or must Hannah have something by for your convenience?’

Crowther realised he had probably been brusque with Hannah, his own housekeeper, before he left his home and recognised that he was now being punished for it. He took the letter and unfolded it, trying to ignore both Harriet’s stifled laugh and Mrs Heathcote’s stony gaze.

‘I can forego the drops, Mrs Heathcote,’ he said, with his eyes cast down. ‘My thanks and apologies to Hannah. I shall dine here, if I am welcome.’

Harriet waved her hand with a smile and Mrs Heathcote, encouraged by this display of Crowther’s improved manners, nodded. ‘There now. Very good, sir. You know she has enough to manage at the moment.’ With that she swept out of the room like a 40-gun frigate under full sail.

When the door closed Harriet laughed hard enough to bring tears into her eyes while Crowther read his express. When she had recovered sufficiently she asked: ‘What extra work are you giving poor Hannah, Crowther? Has she finally begun to regret entering your service?’

‘At times, I am sure she has,’ he replied, continuing to read. ‘I have had several samples from London arrive in a despoiled state due to the heat. They had lost all interest scientifically and I am informed the smell of decay was very difficult to remove from the drapery.’

This confession was enough to send Harriet into a further fit of laughter, so it was some time before she could ask what was the matter of the letter Crowther held in his hand. His reply soon quieted her. His expression was rather wondering, his eyebrows lifted, and he reread the message with his head tilted to one side, as if unsure of what he was seeing on the paper in front of him.

‘I am requested, and the invitation is extended to yourself, to go into the Lake Country near Keswick. My sister, the Vizegrafin Margaret von Bolsenheim, is staying in our former home with her son as guests of the current owner. And they have found a body.’

Harriet left Crowther shortly afterwards to dress for dinner, and to inform her sister that she intended to journey immediately into Cumberland. The invitation had delighted her. She had never seen that part of the country, and in the heat her household duties had become ever more irksome and confining. Yet every pleasure had a price on it. In this case the price was, she was certain, about to be extracted by her sister.

Rachel Trench was the darling of the neighbourhood. A paragon of everything a young woman should be, she was pretty and charming with a lively manner that never went beyond what was proper to her situation in life. She read novels, but did not talk about them too much. She appreciated music and sang rather well, but never gave long displays of her talent. Only her somewhat unusual sister was regarded as a slight blot and some had worried that even Miss Trench’s excellent character might be tainted by sharing a home with her so long. However, in 1780, the year that Harriet had first forced her acquaintance on Crowther, Rachel had met a young and very handsome lawyer from Pulborough by the name of Daniel Clode. He had had some share in the adventures of the family since that time and had been present in Captain Westerman’s last moments. The mutual affection between Rachel and Daniel had been plain throughout, and when Harriet put off her mourning clothes, their engagement was announced. The neighbourhood breathed a sigh of relief. Some thought that perhaps Miss Trench might have found a better match, but all agreed it was best that she be removed from Caveley. Mr Clode came from nowhere, his parents were barely respectable, but now he handled so much business for the estate of the Earl of Sussex, he was more and more noticed in society, and it was hoped marriage to Rachel might put the final polish on him.

Rachel, while modest about her own qualities and proud of her sister’s bravery, was painfully aware of local opinion. Harriet knew she did not worry on her own account, or not greatly, but rather was concerned about her nephew and niece, and wondered what effect their mother’s reputation might have on their prospects. Harriet found the burden of this rather wide-eyed concern intensely irritating. Particularly because, as Crowther had occasionally pointed out to her, her temper was always more likely to fly when she felt herself in the wrong. Harriet knew it hurt Rachel to see her the subject of any number of lurid pamphlets, and it made her tremble to be introduced as ‘the sister of the Mrs Westerman’. It was unlikely, therefore, she would welcome the news that Harriet intended to abandon her household on a moment’s notice and travel hundreds of miles to view a corpse.

Harriet found Rachel in her chamber writing a letter. Harriet suspected it was to her fiance. She was happy to see that their affection — for it was an acknowledged love match — was so warm that although they met every other day, their letters still flowed back and forth. Fixing on the correspondence as a chance to delay mentioning her trip, Harriet asked what was the subject of her letter.

Rachel smiled at her sister and said briskly, ‘Daniel is eager to set a date for our marriage. I write to ask him to be patient.’

‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’ asked Harriet. ‘The household is out of mourning. Marry him as soon as you may. I have always thought late September a fine time for a wedding. Then you may spend your first winter locked up together before you have had time to tire of each other’s company.’

Rachel put down her pen. ‘I hope I may never tire of his company.’ She crossed to the armchair where her sister was seated and took her place at her feet, reaching up for her hands and taking them between her own. Harriet looked down at her, more golden in her colouring where she was red, and wondered unkindly if her looks would fade as she aged. ‘But Harry, I cannot leave you alone yet. Little Anne is so young and I know you miss James still. And Stephen will be going away to school soon. You are used to having people about you. I shall ask Daniel to wait a year or two longer. He will understand.’

Harriet removed her hands and frowned into the carpet. ‘Rachel, I shall miss my husband every day until my death. If you put off your marriage for that reason, you and Daniel will die of old age before I am done grieving.’ She waited a moment till she could be sure her voice was steady again. ‘You are not even leaving Hartswood, for goodness sake. I know Clode has made enquiries about the Mansel House in the village — Michaels told me. Once you have returned from your wedding trip we shall meet every day. Crowther is often here, and the family from Thornleigh. Do not play the martyr out of pity for me.’