Page 15 of The Devil to Pay

Except, when they returned to the garden, she did nothing of the sort. She congratulated Dixey on the progress they had made and suggested that, as the weather was becoming increasingly inclement and she suspected they might have snow in the next few days, they ought to turn their attention to the hot houses, which needed cleaning and preparing for the new season’s fruit and flowers.

“Oh, another day and a half and the digging will be done though, miss,” Dixey protested.

“Yes, but we have not even ordered the roses yet, and it will be some weeks before we can plant them, so there is no rush.”

“But there’s the edging to be done and the pathways to be laid and—”

“Yes, yes, I do remember what I asked you to provide, Mr Dixey, I assure you,” she said, a look in her eyes that was at once calm but resolute. She would have her way, and that was an end to it. “But I do not believe a day or two’s delay will have a serious impact on the schedule. I do know that General Davenport will be gravely disappointed if there are no grapes, however, and I noticed several broken panes of glass that need urgent attention.”

“Ah,” Dixey said, colouring a little. “Mr Llewellyn did mention as how they needed dealing with. Truth be told, it went clean out of my mind.”

Jules wondered if the man was about to be raked over the coals, but Davenport only returned a brisk nod.

“Well, and hardly surprising when you were so forcibly thrust into his shoes with no notice whatsoever. It has been a difficult time for you, I have no doubt, but we are going on splendidly so do not trouble yourself. Just get those glasshouses in order while the weather is so wretchedly cold and wet, and the roses will wait their turn. Good day to you, Mr Dixey, Mark.”

She gave Jules a politely indifferent nod and strode off, leaving him feeling a mixture of gratitude and irritation that sat uneasily in his guts.

Chapter 6

Dearest Cat,

My first instinct on reading your letter was to leave Goshen Court to find and murder Lord Kilbane in the most painful manner I could devise.

However, I have since read your letter several times over, and been reminded by a good friend, that you are no longer a child. You made a mistake, a grave mistake, and now you must face the consequences. I too have made a mistake, Cat. A far worse one than you are guilty of. You are guilty only of seeing the good in a man who does not deserve your regard – no, don’t rage at me, for I perhaps know a little more of your husband’s exploits than do you. Either way, your sin is only one of having a romantic heart, and though Mama and Papa will weep for you, in the end, it is you that will bear the burden of your actions.

I wish it were I who would pay for my indiscretions, instead of a soul so sweet and innocent it makes me loathe myself for the pain I shall inflict over the coming years. Perhaps you will guess my meaning, but I shall not spell it out to you. If you wish to discover more, and perhaps come and lick your wounds in private, you are always welcome, my dear sister. Indeed, I should be glad indeed to welcome you, even if it is to rail at me for what I have done, though my hospitality will be a shabby thing compared to what you are used to. For me, this self-imposed exile serves as a penance of sorts, but if you need peace and quiet, it is a wonderful escape from the world. You will do as you think best. I shall not blame you for avoiding me and my draughty old pile of stone.

I have invited Mama and Papa to visit me in the summer, by which time I hope I may have courage enough to face their disappointment and have made enough improvements to my inheritance to make them think me not entirely useless. Until then, only Thomas and Jules know the truth. Jules only because he’s an interfering devil who turned up unannounced, as is his way. I beg, one thing, Cat, if you have read between the lines and understood my meaning, no matter how angry you may be with me, please keep it to yourself.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble Philip Barrington, Earl of Ashburton to his sister, Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, The Marchioness of Kilbane. (Children of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

24th February 1845, Llun-y-mynydd, Monmouthshire.

Selina picked at her dinner that night, her thoughts dwelling in the apothecary with a man who was taking up far too much of her time. She had too many calls on her attention to waste it wondering about the mystery that was Mark Briggs, but she did not seem to be able to stop herself. The fellow was a mystery, and that was a problem, and Selina had never encountered a problem she hadn’t wanted to fix.

He had been within amesace of tearing her off a strip this afternoon, she was certain of it.

“Didn’t talk and never had, my eye,” she muttered to herself, only to look up to see identical expressions of confusion on the faces of her brothers and sisters. “Wool gathering,” she said absently, and made a determined effort upon the slice of roast beef on her plate.

When Mr Briggs had arranged with her for his cousin to work alongside him, she had assumed his cousin needed company and guidance because the world was something he found difficult to cope with. Perhaps he could not find work of his own or floundered without his cousin to steer him. She had applauded the man for his commitment to his family, and this had gone a long way to resolving her to accept the situation.

One look at those glittering green eyes, however, had told her this assumption was far and wide of the mark. So why, why, would a man like that be here? Was he a criminal, hiding out? A possibility, for sure, but why pretend he could not, or would not, speak? Unless doing so would give him away. This idea found favour with her, and she turned it over in her mind until the dessert course arrived. She was irritated to look up and discover both Abigail and Jacob had taken advantage of her distraction and were reading at the table.

“Put those books away at once,” she scolded, though she rather envied them their little escape from the world. “How rude you are. The dinner table is for conversation and catching up on each other’s days, not for ignoring your family.”

Somehow, she said this without so much as a blush, even though she was just as guilty of not joining in. Selina had long since discovered it was best to ignore one’s own faults before the younger members of the family, or else the realisation she was fallible would eat away at her already limited authority. If only Lewis hadn’t died, she thought with a mournful sigh, and then scolded herself mentally, for she detested those who languished with wails of if only, and what if? But he would have been four and twenty by now. The closest to her in age and temperament, Lewis had been dead these four years, but she still missed him bitterly. He would have shared her burden, unlike Hubert, who was too busy sending himself to hell in a handcart, or Jacob, who cared for nothing except for long dead Greeks and classical allusions.

“Well, then, what have you all been up to?” she demanded, and did her best to pay attention until she sent them all to bed, reminding the younger members severely to wash behind their ears and brush their teeth, for she would check.

Feeling weary and far older than her five and twenty years, she made her way to the little parlour she had claimed as her own. It had been her mother’s once, a tiny room at the back of the house where Mother used to hide away from Father when she could not stand his bellowing any longer and read or embroider. She’d had a wonderful skill with a needle that Selina had not inherited. She could mend and darn well enough, but anything requiring artistic flair or imagination was beyond her ken. How she admired it in others, though. She had carefully framed much of her mother’s needlework and hung on the walls of the parlour. It reminded Selina of happier days, when she was a girl and heedless of how carefree and bright her life was.

Aware she was becoming maudlin, and growing quite impatient with herself, Selina poured herself a little tot of brandy and sat down by the fire. She had decided some months ago that if she were to be an old maid, there were certain things she had a right to indulge in, and a snifter of brandy when she felt like it had topped the list. The spirit fired her blood, a little puddle of warmth soothing her from the inside out as she put her feet up and gave a sigh of relief. Much as she loved her family, their demands were constant and draining. Trying to be mother and father to all of them at once when she had no one to help her was like wading through treacle, never feeling she was getting anywhere. If only she knew if she was doing right by them. Should she be more lenient, perhaps, and let them have more fun, or ought she to be stricter? How could she know? She thought, if they were her own children, she would have borne it easier, but she had never had the chance to be a wife and a mother and had only inherited the burdens of those happy circumstances with none of the pleasures.

Intent on getting herself out of the dismals before she became quite unbearable, she reached for a book, deciding to distract herself. The one nearest to her was a handsome binding in dark green leather with gold tooled writing. The title, The Jewel and the Iron Key, flashed in the firelight and she pursed her lips. It had been a wonderful story, with flashes of quite brilliant writing, but somehow there had been something missing. It did not capture the romance and excitement of the author’s first title, and some of the secondary characters had been rather lacklustre. It frustrated her when she knew the person who had written it was capable of such wondrous storytelling, to find flaws she believed he or she could have overcome if they’d had someone to illustrate those points to them. She had said as much in her review, and then regretted being quite so blunt, as she truly had enjoyed the tale. As one with no talent for art or creation, she stood in awe of those who were capable, but it also made her critical, perhaps too critical, when they did not achieve the heights she felt they ought to have attained. She wondered if perhaps she had hurt the author’s feelings, except no doubt whoever it was had far better things to do than consider the words of a nobody like her. After all, no one outside of her family gave a farthing for her opinion, so why should someone who had been so lauded by everyone else care a hoot?

Still, something about the review nagged at her mind and she could not relax, even after she had finished the brandy. Irritated, Selina got up and found the copy of The Lady’s Gazette that had published her letter. She read it through.

Perhaps they come from an elevated position in life and have never experienced what it is to work for a living, for I found the blacksmith entirely unconvincing, and as for the housekeeper, what a two-dimensional figure she was. Surely even the secondary characters require lives and stories of their own? Whilst the reader does not need to know their entire history, we need to engage with them, to have sympathy for them or hate them because we suspect their motives. In The Ghosts of Castle Madruzzo this was perfectly executed, but most of the characters, except for the valet who was wonderfully drawn, were from the higher reaches of society. I believe this is telling.