Strangely enough, though, the house he was looking at now did feel connected to his father, albeit in a roundabout way. Even though he felt certain Captain William Madeley had never set eyes on it in his lifetime. But his grandfather, Captain John Madeley, would have known it well. He would have grown up here before going off to become a midshipman. He’d run off to sea, according to Mr. Pratt, after a disagreement with his own father. What had the argument been about that had so precipitately driven his grandfather from his home? He’d probably never find out. According to Mr. Pratt, it hadbeen over a hundred years ago, and everyone who knew anything about it would be long dead by now. And did it even matter now? Probably not.
He turned away from the house and set off across the field of stubble. No doubt it would be being ploughed up soon by some sturdy tenant farmer of his. The fact that he possessed tenants never ceased to surprise him. It didn’t seem possible that the man who until not long ago had possessed little more than his army pension and the clothes he stood up in could now own such unimagined wealth. He smiled. In truth, anything over his army pension counted as unimagined wealth.
The ground was uneven so his cane came in more handy than he’d expected and once or twice he had to lean heavily on it to avoid stumbling. But his morning stiffness was wearing off. The day when he no longer needed the cane couldn’t come quickly enough. He’d be happy to throw the damn thing on the fire in the parlor. But he wouldn’t think about that. Walking in the early morning always made him feel more cheerful and doing so here was as good as walking on the beach in Suffolk had been. So long as he didn’t let his memories intrude.
The fields were small and he soon came to a gate onto what might have been possible to call a road, if one were being generous. Hedges in need of a good trimming edged both sides of a potholed gravel track with unkempt grass down the middle. Instinct told him turning right might well bring him back to the house, so instead, he turned left and set off at a good pace, every step invigorating him despite the pain in his leg and back. If he kept this up he might even be hungry when he returned. That would be an unusual occurrence.
The lane, for that was how he had chosen to categorize it, was flanked here and there by mature trees—oak, ash, beech and chestnut, the latter boasting what looked like a goodly crop of nuts ready to fall. Perhaps he’d collect some in a few weeks’ time and take them back to roast on one of the fires, just as he’d done as a boy in Ipswich.
It soon became evident that turning left had been the right choice to take him to the nearest village. A brisk twenty minutes of walking, ignoring the pains in his back and leg, brought him to a decent sized settlement. A mix of thatched and tiled-roofed cottages lined the lane and the very oddly shaped spire of a church caught his eye where it poked up out of some trees. On a truncated tower’s stump a large copper ball sat on a king post and four supports, with a weather vane perched on the top. Interesting and as far as he knew, unique. There must be a story behind that.
On an impulse he directed his steps towards the churchyard. A wooden gate stood open, so he went inside and up the gravelled path to the porch. He was about to try the door, when it swung open and he came face to face with an elderly gentleman in possession of a cloud of snowy white hair. His clerical garb and the Bible under his arm gave away his calling.
The rector stopped dead and stared hard at Harry from behind small round spectacles. After several long moments he let out a relieved sigh. “Good heavens. I took you for someone else. Quite a shock to the system.”
“You did?” Harry was as surprised as the rector appeared to be. “Who would that be?”
The vicar took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Why, just someone I once knew who’s been dead a long time now.” He replaced the spectacles. “But I must admit that I find your resemblance to him, even though it’s many years since I last saw him, quite amazing. Truly so.” He took off his spectacles, gave them a rub with his handkerchief then put them back on again, as though that might sharpen his observations.
A glimmer of understanding dawned in Harry’s head. This was, after all, his ancestral home. “Might he have possessed the surname Madeley?”
The old man nodded. “Quite correct. He did. None of them leftnow though, unfortunately.”
Harry was not immune to the enjoyment that surprising someone could bring. “Then he must be a relation of mine,” he said, trying to hide his relish. “For my name is also Madeley.” He paused. Best to not hide who he was any longer. “Sir Henry Madeley.”
This had the desired effect. The rector’s eyes widened in shock and his mouth opened and closed a few times before he found any words. “Sir Henry. I had no idea another branch of the family existed. Well…I knew it once had, but not that it was still in existence. Good heavens above. I’m quite taken aback, but in the nicest possible way. Please allow me to welcome you to the village. I am most gratified to have made your acquaintance. Most gratified.”
Harry smiled. “That’s quite all right. I don’t think anyone, including me, knew that I stood to inherit the title and estate. You are not the only one this has taken by surprise.”
The old man held out his gnarled, age-spotted hand. “Then please allow me to introduce myself. John Mastin at your service, vicar of All Saints here in Naseby.” He waved a hand as though Harry might not have quite understood. “This is my church.”
Harry nodded. “I had assumed as much by your attire and the fact you were exiting the church with a Bible in your hand.”
The Reverend Mastin chuckled, his faded blue eyes now alight with curiosity. No doubt he relished the idea of being the first in the village to encounter their new lord of the manor. He recovered his aplomb with speed. “I must say that you are about very early, Sir Henry. A man after my own heart. I always find I do my best work early in the mornings and I like to have the church to myself for a little quiet prayer before breakfast. Might I enquire whether you yourself have breakfasted yet?”
Was he about to get an invitation to the rectory? Harry, liking the old man, smiled, reflecting that he’d been doing more smiling here than he’d done for the last four months. Perhaps the place was havinga good effect on him. “As you might imagine, I left Windrush for my walk at an early hour, so no, I have not yet breakfasted.”
Reverend Mastin seized his arm. “Then I insist you come to the rectory with me as my housekeeper will have a hearty breakfast ready, which I will gladly share with you. She always cooks more than I can eat. I think she’s trying to fatten me up.”
Unable to resist this genuine friendliness, Harry allowed himself to be ushered out of the churchyard and up the drive of the substantial house next door. He was indeed hungry, for once, so why not put himself out to please this gentle old man?
Miranda had begunthe morning by getting up at nearly as early an hour as Harry had. Now she had no servants other than Betsey, there would be all sorts of chores to be done before breakfast could even be thought of. She wasn’t sure what they were, but no doubt Betsey would apprise her of their nature.
She found Betsey already at work lighting the fire in the kitchen with the help of Megs, who also seemed to have decided getting up early would be a good thing now she was a farm girl. Not that Megs had ever been a late riser at the Hall. All six dogs were sitting in an expectant row, waiting for their places in front of the fire to be ready for them.
“I’ll light the parlor fire,” Miranda said as she tied on her apron.
No one objected to this offer, so she gathered the basket full of dry sticks Betsey had left ready for this task; a tinder box, char cloth and a sulfur-tipped match. Tippo followed her through and regarded her with a slightly suspicious air, as though she thought her mistress incapable of the job in hand. Which she might well be. She shot the old pug a frown. Lighting a fire couldn’t be that hard, could it? Betsey seemed to be managing well and the maids had always had good blazes going by the time she’d got up at the Hall. It was a challenge she was prepared to conquer. Especially if Megs could do it. She was notabout to be bested by her youngest child.
She knelt down. Someone had left oil and emery paper beside the hearth. Whatever was she supposed to do with that?
Megs, wearing a sooty apron, loomed over her. “Betsey cleaned the hearth with the paper and oil.”
Right. Then she would too. Not so easy as she’d thought it would be and an altogether much dirtier job as well. She didn’t recall ever having seen the housemaids looking like they were sweeps’ boys. But she did it, under Megs’ far too close scrutiny.
Now to arrange the kindling. That couldn’t be so hard.
No comment from Meg who must have observed Betsey’s skills.
