Lady Matilda Farnsworth sat in the sun-dappled drawing room of her home, Biddington Court. One hand absentmindedly stroked her long ears of her Basset Hound, while the other held a teacup. Wellington, the dog, lay beside her, snoring gently.
Hetty Trelawny, Lady Matilda’s faithful companion, sat knitting. Her needles clacked in time with the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “I wonder when we might hear from the Northmoors. Lady Northmoor—”
“—was due last week,” Matilda said, taking up where Hetty had left off. “You can say that, Hetty. It isn’t at all rude.”
Hetty flushed. “I know, my lady. But discussing those types of things, even with you, just feels a little too personal to me. It’s the way I was brought up. I’ve told you before that my mother always said young ladies should never mention such things.”
Matilda was too fond of her companion to point out that it had been a great many years since she had been a ‘young lady’. She secretly believed the reason the other woman was so reluctant to discuss anything even slightly intimate was because Hetty had never married.
“Perhaps the baby has already arrived and they’re too busy counting fingers and toes to write.”
“Nonsense,” Matilda retorted. “Lady Northmoor will telephone as soon as the baby comes. I’m sure of it.”
“Or at least she will make Lord Northmoor telephone.” Hetty smiled. “Lady Northmoor is singularly clever in ensuring that Lord Northmoor does her bidding. I wonder if it will be a boy or a girl.”
Matilda smiled. “I can’t imagine either of them caring less, from what I have learned about the Northmoors. They will simply be happy that the baby has arrived safely.”
Hetty opened her mouth to reply, but the door swung open and Bletchley, the butler, cleared his throat. “Miss Gertrude Chambers to see you, my lady.”
Hetty’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, heavens. Gertrude Chambers makes even the vicar sit up straighter. She’s a bitter pill.”
Matilda sighed with obvious reluctance. “Show her in, Bletchley.”
Moments later, Gertrude Chambers swept into the room, dressed in tweed despite the warm weather and with an air of unshakable authority.
“Lady Farnsworth,” she said with a stiff nod. Then, with barely a glance at Hetty: “Miss Trelawny.”
“Miss Chambers,” Matilda gestured towards a seat. “Please do sit down. May we offer you refreshments?”
“No time, thank you.” Gertrude Chambers marched from one end of the carpet to the other. “I’m here about the tea party.”
“Of course. I understand that The Vicarage Garden Tea Party is a social highlight of the summer, Miss Chambers,” Matilda replied. “Has the planning of this year’s event required particular precision?”
“Indeed, it has.” Miss Chambers turned smartly on the patterned navy Persian rug. “I’m here to confirm what we’ll require from you.”
Matilda blinked. “From me?”
“Yes, my lady.” Gertrude raised an eyebrow. “You said that you would open the event.”
Matilda pressed her lips into a firm line. “I did, but I wasn’t at all sure you were serious. It’s a village tea party, not the Chelsea Flower Show. Does it really require ‘opening’?”
“It most certainly does.” Gertrude sniffed. “Tradition is tradition. Not to mention that your presence will give an added air prestige to the event. We shall also need someone with your poise and bearing to judge the cake competition.”
Matilda wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I should be very good at that. I don’t eat a lot of cake.”
“I do,” Hetty offered brightly.
Gertrude turned her gaze towards Hetty, her expression unamused. “Yes, I imagine you do. Perhaps if you walked faster and talked less, you might find that exercise would balance your waistline.”
Hetty’s mouth opened in indignation, then closed again with an audible snap. “I like cake, and I enjoy socialising with my friends.”
Wellington gave a small whine and shuffled closer to his mistress.
“I do hope you’re not bringing that creature with you.”
“Wellington?” Matilda asked, silently wishing she had the kind of polished composure Miss Chambers imagined she did—something refined enough to dismiss the odious woman without causing a scene.
“Yes, him.”
Matilda, until that moment, had had no intention of taking Wellington to the tea party. “Of course he shall come with me. Wellington goes everywhere with me.”
Gertrude pursed her lips. “Then you must keep him on a lead. I don’t want him slobbering near the baked goods.”
Wellington let out a low moan that sounded very much like disappointment.
“Wellington does not slobber,” Hetty said indignantly.
“I expect you there for midday,” Gertrude directed her words to Matilda, completely ignoring Hetty as though she had not spoken. “You will open the tea party at precisely half-past twelve, and I will need you to be at the judging table for two sharp. Please wear something appropriate for a tea party. May I suggest something floral, and certainly not funereal? Good day.”
As the door clicked shut behind her, Hetty burst out, “Well, she’s no better than a navvy with a napkin.”
“I do not know if that saying is correct, or one of your delightful malapropisms, but I do believe your sentiment is correct.” Matilda looked down at Wellington, who gave her a mournful glance in return. “She was jolly rude about my clothing. Funereal indeed.”
“You don’t tend to wear a lot of colours these days,” Hetty said carefully.
“Well, no.” Matilda hated anything that reminded her of the death of her husband. “But I feel that wearing dark colours is respectful to Percival.”
“My lady,” Hetty said gently, “It’s been nearly two years since Lord Dartcombe died. It really would be rather nice to see you in bright, gay colours and not dreary grey or dull navy.”
“I suppose it would,” Matilda said absently. Her mind was no longer on her clothes, but on her late husband.
It didn’t matter how many times Hetty carefully referred to Percy’s death; Matilda simply couldn’t stand the reminder that he was no longer with her. Remembering Percy was dead brought back the dreadful day she had found him in the stable—the victim of a terrible accident with his own gun.
Once one had seen such a sight, it was extremely difficult to think about flowers, colourful clothes, and village tea parties.
***
“Another visitor for you, my lady,” Bletchley announced.
Matilda could scarcely believe her bad luck. It was rare for anyone to come up to Biddington Court without an invitation. It was simply unheard of for two people to do so on the same day.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Leonard Ashcroft, my lady.”
“And who is he?”
“He’s new to the village,” Hetty said in a conspiratorial whisper, as though the information she had imparted was a national secret.
“And who, exactly, is Leonard Ashcroft?”
“Well,” Hetty said with a smile, “that’s the question, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes. It’s precisely the question I asked.”
“Ah, yes, well, what I mean to say is no one knows who he is,” Hetty said, giving a self-deprecating grin. “Apart from his name, of course. We know his name’s Leonard Ashcroft.”
“Yes.” Matilda drew out the word, then turned to the butler. “Did he give any indication as to why he’s here?”
“None, my lady,” he intoned evenly, in his impassive manner. He gave absolutely no indication he had even heard the exchange between her and Hetty.
“Well, I suppose you’ll have to show him—” Matilda paused. Ordinarily, she would have said, ‘show him through to us’, but they were not in the drawing room, but in the garden. Hetty had been dozing in the sun, while Matilda had been thinking of happier times.
She had grown so bored at Biddington Court of late, and couldn’t seem to shake a feeling of intense restlessness. What on earth had she done to fill her time when Percy was alive? She supposed she had spent the days discussing menus with the cook and which guest bedrooms needed making up with the housekeeper.
Of course, since her husband’s death, she hadn’t really cared what she’d eaten and hadn’t invited any friends to stay. But, truth be told, she didn’t even really seem to have friends anymore. Perhaps the people she had Percy had once invited to their home—and who had given reciprocal invites—only socialised with single and married women, not widows. She supposed it was considered an important distinction, though she couldn’t quite work out why.
It was rare for a person of her age to remain unmarried after the death of a spouse. Not that she wanted to meet someone new, but how was one supposed to do so when you were never invited anywhere? Hetty was always telling her to get back in touch with her old friends. In fact, she had purchased a rather pretty writing set a few months previously, but she hadn’t used it. Something was holding her back.
“My lady?” Bletchley interrupted her thoughts. “Shall I show Mr Ashcroft out to you?”
“Of course. Please do.”
A few moments later, Bletchley returned with a neatly dressed man, who appeared to be in his early forties. He was the sort of chap one might pass in the street without a second glance. His features were even, his hair neat. He was not unattractive, but would never be labelled handsome either.
“Thank you so much for seeing me, my lady,” he said politely.
“I’m rather intrigued,” Hetty said in her usual honest way.
Leonard Ashcroft looked between Matilda and Hetty in obvious confusion.
“What my companion means to say is that she is the curious type,” Matilda said.
“Well, then I’m glad for your companion’s spirit of inquiry.” He smiled at Hetty, then looked at Matilda with a respectful nod. It seemed he was now clear on which of them was Lady Dartcombe and which the companion. “And whatever it is that has persuaded you to acquiesce to our meeting today.”
They might not know exactly who Leonard Ashcroft was, but he was incredibly charming and had impeccable manners. Perhaps he would be an interesting diversion from her maudlin thoughts.
“Do please take a seat, Mr Ashcroft.”
“May I offer you refreshments, sir?” Bletchley asked.
“I should love a cup of tea, if it isn’t too much trouble.” He smiled politely at the butler. “I seem to have worked up rather a thirst during the walk up here.”
Bletchley looked at Matilda and waited for her confirmation. “Of course, Mr Ashcroft. Please ask Cook to make a fresh pot, Bletchley.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She smiled at Hetty indulgently. “And perhaps, if Cook has any of her splendid shortbread biscuits left, you could bring a plate?”
“I’m certain that she has, my lady.” He gave a respectful bow and walked back towards the house.
“Thank you, my lady,” Hetty said, with heartfelt thanks.
While Matilda had not referred directly to Gertrude’s rather rude remark about Hetty’s weight, she had noticed her companion’s forlorn expression following the other woman’s cruel comments. A few shortbread biscuits would surely improve Hetty’s disposition.
“May I say what a lovely spot this is,” Leonard Ashcroft remarked.
Matilda looked around, as though seeing her favourite outdoor area of Biddington Court for the first time. It was a rather attractive corner of the grounds tucked as it was beneath the broad canopy of an ancient beech tree. The sun never quite reached through or around the large tree which gave them cool shade despite the warmth of the July weather. The summer breeze carried the delicious scent of roses, honeysuckle, and lavender from the nearby borders. Bees droned lazily in the distance. It really was a very special place.
“Thank you.” Matilda smiled at their guest. “We like it very much.”
“You’re new to the village, aren’t you?” Hetty asked brightly. “I expect you feel like a fish in a teapot.”
Matilda was relieved that Hetty had swept away the awkwardness in her usual, inimitable fashion. She might be rusty at polite chatter herself, but there was never any danger of a lull with Hetty in the vicinity.
“I am indeed new to Little Biddington.” Leonard replied, as though completely unaware that Hetty had misspoken. “It’s so very nice to meet your acquaintance, Miss…um Mrs—”
“It’s Miss Trelawny.” Matilda reached down and stroked Wellington’s head. “Do please accept my apologies for not introducing you sooner. It was very remiss of me. Miss Trelawny is my much-valued companion.”
“Not at all, my lady. I expect you are rather disconcerted at my appearance here today. You must be wondering why I have called, and especially without an invitation.”
“Lady Dartcombe is much too polite to say so,” Hetty said. “But I expect she’s as intrigued at your visit as I am.”
“Well, I won’t keep you lovely ladies in suspense any longer.” If Leonard Ashcroft were to smile at Hetty like that too often, Matilda feared her companion would dissolve into a giggling schoolgirl — and possibly never recover. “Miss Trelawny is correct, I am new to the village. I believe that my people originally came from this area. I wondered if you might know of them.”
“Oh dear,” said Hetty in a voice laden with disappointment. “I don’t think either of us will be able to help you. Lord Dartcombe’s family have been in this area for generations and he may have been able to help you but, of course—”
“What my companion means to say,” Matilda took up where Hetty left off. “Is that Lord Dartcombe, and his family, have indeed lived in this area for hundreds of years so it was a good idea to visit us to ask about your relations. However, I am sorry to say that Lord Dartcombe died recently. And, although Miss Trelawny is from Devon, she’s not from this area originally. So I’m afraid neither of us know much about people that might have lived in Little Biddington years ago.”
“Please accept my condolences.” Their guest dipped his head and looked at his feet, but he wasn’t quick enough to hide the flush on his cheeks.
“I may know something that could help,” Hetty confided.
“Miss Trelawny listens to rather a lot of village gossip,” Matilda said with a smile to soften her words.
“Well let me be honest, and confess the reason I’m asking about my family,” Leonard said. “And then we shall see if you can help.”
Bletchley returned at that moment with one of the house maids who hurriedly took away their used teapot and crockery. With great care, the butler placed the requested tea tray on the wrought iron garden table. Hetty’s eyes gleamed with delight at the plate laden with Cook’s shortbread biscuits.
“Do please go on,” Matilda encouraged as Bletchley left them.
“As a child, I was adopted by a rather wonderful family who lived on the south coast. I was raised in Bournemouth. Perhaps you know it?”
“It’s a lovely part of the country,” Matilda said. “We’ve been fortunate to visit on many occasions.”
“One doesn’t wish to intrude,” Hetty said—which was usually a prelude to her doing exactly that—“but when you say your people, does that mean you’re here to find your family? That is to say, not the family that raised you.”
Leonard turned sad eyes to Hetty. “I believe what you’re trying to say, Miss Trelawny, is: am I looking for the people who gave me up? And the answer to your question is yes, I am.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“It’s a very delicate subject, but I do my best not to get too emotional. I was lucky to have wonderful parents. They were very good to me but sadly both are now gone. They knew I came from this area but either didn’t know, or did not tell me, any more than that. I do hope to find out who my mother might have been.”
“I do wish we could help you,” Matilda said, feeling more than a little uncomfortable at the turn in the conversation. “But, as I said previously, we’re both relatively new to the area.”
“You know who will be able to help you?” Hetty suggested brightly. “Gertrude Chambers. She’s been here in Little Biddington simply forever. She lives with her sister, Iris, in the village. Perhaps you’ve met them already?”
Leonard’s friendly expression soured. “Yes. Yes, I have.”
“Oh dear,” Matilda said. “I’m afraid Gertrude Chambers can be rather hard work, but her sister is positively delightful.”
“Yes, that’s rather the impression I’ve formed,” Leonard agreed. “However, it was very difficult to speak with Miss Iris Chambers, and her sister told me in no uncertain terms that neither of them listens to gossip.”
“Well, that’s categorically untrue,” Hetty said decidedly. “I know for a fact that Gertrude Chambers keeps a notebook in her handbag.”
“Does she?” Matilda asked.
“Yes, she does.” Hetty gave a firm nod. “She writes everything that happens in the village in her book. She knows everything about everyone.”
“Why does she do that?” Matilda wondered.
“If one were uncharitable,” Hetty said, “one would say that it is because she likes to have information about people that she can use later if she needs to.”
“But nothing really happens in a village like Little Biddington, does it?” Matilda shrugged. “I can’t think what Miss Chambers could possibly have to write about.”
“You’ve said that before, my lady,” Hetty said. “And you were wrong. You know what they say: still waters run shallow, don’t they?”
***
Matilda waved to those she knew from the village as she made her way towards Agnes Hemmings, who was serving tea. Behind her, Wellington shuffled reluctantly along. His tongue lolled out of one side of his mouth and, if possible, he looked even more lethargic than usual.
She really should have left him at home, and out of the searing heat, but after Gertrude Chambers’s rude comment the previous afternoon, she was determined he should accompany her. Hetty brought up the rear of their little group, ineffectually flapping at her red face with one hand.
It wasn’t just the weather on that day that Hetty found fault with. It was always either too cold, too hot, too rainy, or too dry for her taste — and heaven help everyone if it was windy. On this July afternoon, however, there wasn’t even the faintest hint of a breeze.
As the sun beat down relentlessly, Matilda found herself feeling rather sympathetic towards the fellow in charge of the vicarage gardens. It must take the poor man hours to fill his watering can each evening.
Bringing Wellington with her wasn’t the only way Matilda had chosen to defy Gertrude Chambers’s suggestions. Quite deliberately, she had selected an extremely plain dark grey dress for the occasion — one doing absolutely nothing to ward off the summer heat. If anything, she felt as though she were standing in a greenhouse. Perhaps both Gertrude and Hetty were right, and it was past time she wore clothing that was lighter in both colour and fabric.
She owned a rather lovely lemon-coloured dress, well suited to both the warm weather and her red hair. But it had been one of Percy’s particular favourites, and so it remained tucked away at the back of her wardrobe. Each time her eye fell on it, she thought only of him — not of how cool and refreshing it might have felt on a day such as this.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” called the vicar as he passed.
“Oh, Reverend Elwood, what a wonderful turnout,” she commented, though she wasn’t entirely sure if it was. She had never been to the vicarage tea party before, so couldn’t say whether the attendance was good or not.
“Yes,” he said, looking around as though to assure himself. “Yes, indeed it is.”
Though, of course, because he was new to the parish, he couldn’t possibly know whether the event was well attended or not either.
Matilda was certain it wasn’t the done thing to think ill of a man of the cloth, but it was hard not to when it came to the Reverend Elwood. He was a rather shifty-looking fellow who always seemed to be looking around rather than concentrating on the person to whom he was speaking. Hetty had called him furtive, and although Matilda had admonished her companion for her uncharitable description, she couldn’t disagree with it.
As Hetty had reminded her when they were speaking with Leonard Ashcroft the previous day, villages were full of people with secrets. She had always presumed villages were boring little places, but after one of Little Biddington’s inhabitants, Adelaide Forsyth, was found dead at the dog show earlier that year, Matilda had quite revised her opinion of village life.
She saw Gertrude Chambers heading her way and abruptly altered her path, bumping directly into that lady’s sister.
“Oh, Lady Dartcombe,” Iris said in her meek way. “May I say, the way you opened our little vicarage tea party was quite divine—amazing, in fact. Quite wonderful.”
“Thank you,” Matilda said.
While Gertrude was rude, overbearing, and judgmental, her sister was quite the opposite—though Matilda found both women equally difficult. Iris Chambers was overly effusive with her praise of everything and everyone, which tended to leave the person in receipt of her compliments unsure how to accept them properly.
As she looked back, she saw Gertrude speaking with Leonard Ashcroft, the reverend and a man she didn’t recognise. “Hetty, who is that speaking with Leonard Ashcroft?”
“That’s Rupert Last,” Hetty said. “Perhaps he and Mr Ashcroft have become friendly, as Mr Last is also new to the village. Though I believe someone mentioned he used to live here years ago. He seems a pleasant enough chap, but I have noticed he puts sugar in his tea after the milk, which I always think says something questionable about a person’s character.”
Matilda bit back a smile wondering how on earth Hetty knew how Mr Last took his tea. Before she could ask, Wellington gave an unexpected lurch forward.
“Wellington!” she cried, but it was too late.
The Basset Hound surged ahead with a sudden burst of uncharacteristic energy, dragging Matilda several steps towards a nearby table. With a snuffling grunt, he launched himself at a plate of individual Bakewell tarts, knocking them to the grass.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Matilda exclaimed as Wellington snuffled enthusiastically over the scattered pastries.
Gertrude Chambers descended like a thundercloud. “That beast,” she hissed. “That slobbering, greedy creature—look what he’s done! I told you not to bring him!”
Matilda tugged Wellington back by his lead, cheeks flaming. “I do apologise. He’s usually not so excitable.”
“You’ve brought a drooling menace to place of well-ordered decorum,” Gertrude snapped. “This is why dogs should not attend civilised events.”
“He didn’t mean to,” Hetty said, crouching to retrieve the least-smeared of the tarts.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Matilda said again.
“Tell that to the women of the village who have spent hours baking, only to have their efforts ruined by your mutt!” Gertrude looked over at Agnes Hemmings. “Is my tea ready?”
“Yes, here it is,” Agnes said, smiling placatingly at Gertrude as she handed the battle-axe her cup of tea.
Unsurprisingly, that lady could not be appeased. “I am going to sit on the bench under the arbour for a few moments to gather myself.”
“I’m so sorry, Lady Dartcombe,” Agnes said apologetically. “What can I get for you?”
“Is Gertrude Chambers always so demanding?”
“Oh yes,” Agnes answered as though the other woman’s behaviour was perfectly acceptable. “Did you notice that she even insists on having her Earl Grey served in a cup she’s brought from home?”
“My goodness me,” Matilda said. “How odd.”
“Hello, Aggie,” Hetty said from behind Matilda. “I’m positively gasping for a cup of tea. What about you, my lady?”
“Lemonade for me, please, Mrs Hemmings.”
A terrible cry came from the direction of the arbour. It sounded like an animal in pain. Wellington gave a low moan and moved behind Matilda. Without thinking about what she was doing, she passed the dog’s lead to Hetty and hurried off towards the arbour.
As she entered the clearing, she saw Gertrude Chambers slumped to one side on the bench, gasping and clutching at her throat. The older woman’s eyes were wide with horror. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out—only a quite terrible gurgle. Then, with a final shudder, she slid from the bench and crumpled to the ground.
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