The Suspicion at Sanditon (Or, the Disappearance of Lady Denham) Page 5

  As they waited for Lady Denham to join them, Charlotte and Mrs. Darcy had an opportunity to look about. Their eyes were immediately drawn to the full-length portrait of a dignified gentleman, which hung above the mantelpiece.

  “I assume that is some former master of this house?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Actually, no,” said Mrs. Parker. “That is Sir Harry Denham, Lady Denham’s second husband. Sanditon House is the ancestral home of the Hollis family, and traditionally, a portrait of the current master of Sanditon House has indeed hung in that spot—in fact, among the household, this room is called the portrait room for that very reason—and a large portrait of Lady Denham’s first husband used to hang there. But when she moved back into Sanditon House after Sir Harry’s death, she relocated Archibald Hollis’s portrait to the long gallery and installed Sir Harry above the fireplace. Only a miniature portrait of Mr. Hollis remains in this room—in that case over there.”

  Charlotte could not help pitying the late Mr. Hollis. To be usurped in one’s own home and relegated to a corner case while one’s successor enjoys a place of prominence! Too, she wondered how Sir Harry might feel about having been removed from his ancestral home to preside over the house of a mere Mister. He did not appear to mind, bearing himself with all the dignity he might have shown in his own drawing room at Denham Park, as his gaze surveyed every corner of the surroundings into which he had been transplanted.

  She and Mrs. Darcy wandered over to the glass-fronted cabinet in which the miniatures were displayed. Therein lay a dozen tiny portraits, representing, from the similarity of their subjects’ appearances, either several close branches of a family tree, or an uninspired artist. They were not an entirely unattractive group, but neither were they handsome. A prominent nose and long face were apparent characteristics of the family, as was hair in degrees of blond ranging from very pale to dark. All of the sitters had been captured in their youth or middle age, rendering both Charlotte and Mrs. Darcy unable to guess which of the likenesses depicted Lady Denham’s late husband. She asked Mrs. Parker to identify him.

  “That is he.” Mrs. Parker pointed to an image in the middle row, the most amiable-looking gentleman in the display. “I never knew him, of course. He died long before I married Mr. Parker and moved to Sanditon—before I was even born. Mr. Parker is also too young to have known Mr. Hollis, but recalls tales told by his parents and others who remembered the gentleman.”

  “What sort of man was he?”

  “A worthy sort of man.”

  Charlotte jumped. Though she recognized the voice behind her as Lady Denham’s, its proximity startled her. Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Darcy were equally discomposed by the sudden appearance of the dowager, who had entered the room so quietly that none of the women had perceived her approach.

  “Your ladyship,” Charlotte stammered as her mind raced to recall whether anything she and Mrs. Parker had said in the past minute might reflect poorly on her if Lady Denham had overheard. Though she pronounced her conscience clear, she nevertheless offered a deeper curtsy than was necessary. “I did not realize you had joined us.”

  “You were examining the miniatures, I see,” Lady Denham replied. “They are all Hollises. The middle row is my late husband’s generation of the family—Mr. Hollis, three sisters, and a brother. A respectable-looking family, are they not? Well, do not let their appearances fool you. My Mr. Hollis—Archibald Hollis—was the best of the lot. The rest of them may live like ladies and gentlemen, but their behavior to me was so uncivil that I washed my hands of them decades ago.”

  Lady Denham paused, leaving Charlotte with the impression that she was expected to say something in praise of Lady Denham’s conduct, or that would, without appearing impertinent, encourage her to divulge the particulars of the Hollises’ transgressions. “Doubtless, you had good cause,” she offered.

  “Mr. Hollis was many years my senior, and was a bachelor the first two-and-sixty years of his life. After decades spent believing themselves secure of inheriting his fortune—even installing a nephew here as his heir for a while—his relations accused me of manipulating him into marriage so that I could ‘steal’ what they already considered theirs. The presumption! Who are they, to assume Mr. Hollis’s fortune would become their own? They, who never paid him five minutes’ uncalculated attention?”

  Again, Charlotte sensed that some sort of response was expected of her, but Lady Denham went on.

  “I did not need his fortune, nor did he need mine. The sum my father settled upon me was enough to grant me independence; I could have remained Miss Brereton forever if I so chose. On his side, Mr. Hollis possessed property and funds passed to him through generations, and he had been a careful owner of his estate during the whole of his long life. When control of the estate was given to me at his passing, his kin were affronted by his decision, believing themselves more entitled to it than I, because they were Hollises by birth, and I only through a marriage he made late in life. That I was the comfort of his old age—his nurse—his wife—his friend—meant nothing to them. And now that my own years number three and a half score, who do you think have come looking for a reconciliation? Those Hollises! Having been overlooked by Mr. Hollis, they now hope to be remembered by me. Depend upon it, though five-and-thirty years have passed, I do remember them—and not warmly.”

  To the contrary, Charlotte observed that Lady Denham had grown quite warm during her recitation of the Hollises’ offenses. “Are they the same Hollises—the same individuals?” She expected that in five-and-thirty years, at least some of them had joined Archibald Hollis in the hereafter.

  “It makes no difference—they are Hollises.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Miss Brereton, who arrived with quick steps and a distracted expression. She halted abruptly when she realized Lady Denham and four visitors occupied the room.

  “Well, now, Miss Clara,” Lady Denham said, “where have you been hiding this half hour at least?”

  A faint flush crept into Clara’s cheeks. “I have not been hiding, only walking—as you know I like to do of a morning.”

  “By yourself? In this mist? You stayed within the park, I hope.”

  “The mist did not trouble me.”

  Charlotte herself nearly blushed to hear Clara’s prevarication, and she could not help but glance at Mrs. Darcy. Neither of them betrayed their greater knowledge of Clara’s earlier whereabouts, or that Sir Edward had been her companion.

  “Too, the mist is beginning to lift,” Clara added.

  Lady Denham regarded her a long moment. “Yes, it is.” She paused a moment more, her expression unreadable, before turning back to Charlotte and Mrs. Darcy. “There is a larger painting of Mr. Hollis in the long gallery upstairs. Would you care to see it? The gallery also enjoys a fine prospect of the grounds.”

  The two of them had little choice but to accept. To their surprise, Lady Denham asked Miss Brereton to show the three ladies and little Mary the gallery while she herself remained in the portrait room. The child asked whether she might visit Mr. Hollis’s chamber horse while they were upstairs.

  “What?” Mary’s question seemed to wrench Lady Denham’s attention, and Charlotte got the impression that whatever her ladyship’s own etiquette weaknesses might be, the dowager was a strict adherent of the “children should be seen and not heard” philosophy of social intercourse.

  “I have heard you say there is a horse in Mr. Hollis’s chamber. Might I see it?”

  “Oh, dear, Mary!” Mrs. Parker exclaimed. “When visiting other people’s homes, one does not ask to see rooms into which one has not been invited. Apologize to Lady Denham.”

  “But when she comes to our house—”

  “That is different.”

  Though her expression held confusion, little Mary offered their hostess a formal “I beg your pardon.”

  Her ladyship regarded the child for a long moment. “I suppose you may ride upon the chamber horse,” she finally said, �
�but for only five minutes. And take care that you do so gently! I want it to remain in good condition, in the event an opportunity should arise to hire it out to a visiting family.”

  They left Lady Denham in the portrait room for the time being and headed for the gallery. As they climbed the staircase, little Mary was full of curiosity and speculation about the chamber horse. “What is its name?” she asked Miss Brereton.

  “I do not believe Mr. Hollis ever gave it a name,” Miss Brereton said with a smile. “But perhaps Lady Denham will allow you to name it.”

  “If it is a boy horse, I shall name him Star.”

  “And if it is a mare?”

  This required a moment’s thought. “Tilly.”

  Charlotte had never seen a chamber horse either, nor heard of one before meeting Lady Denham. She pictured it as some sort of child’s rocking horse, but could not imagine the Mr. Hollis of the miniature, let alone that gentleman in his late sixties, riding such an object. Her interest in seeing the apparatus almost matched little Mary’s, exceeded only by her lingering astonishment concerning Miss Brereton’s rendezvous with Sir Edward. At least her curiosity on one of the subjects would soon be satisfied.

  Given the child’s eagerness to meet the horse, nobody harbored any illusions about the likelihood of a peaceful visit to the gallery before she had done, so they went first to the late Mr. Hollis’s apartment, where the chamber horse yet stabled in the antechamber. Little Mary was disappointed to discover that it was neither some sort of live pygmy pony nor a wooden rocking horse, but simply an item of furniture: a rectangular leather-covered springed seat about eighteen inches tall, affixed to a tablelike wooden base with a shallow drawer and four legs that raised it another foot off the floor. A footboard protruded in front to assist mounting. On either side of the seat, slits were cut through the leather at each layer of springs, and wooden spindles rose up from the base to form handles for the rider to grip while bouncing on the stationary steed. The only thing genuinely equine about it in form or fact was the hair stuffed under the top to cushion the seat.

  “It is a device for taking exercise,” Miss Brereton explained as she helped the girl step up on the footrest and from there climb atop. “Lady Denham says that Mr. Hollis used it during inclement weather.”

  “Does Lady Denham use the chamber horse?” little Mary asked.

  Charlotte suppressed a laugh. For all the dowager’s vigor, Charlotte was no more able to envision Lady Denham bouncing on the seat than she was able to picture Mr. Hollis. The image was simply too undignified for a woman as conscious of her own importance as was the dowager.

  “She does not,” Miss Brereton replied. “However, Lady Denham is a mighty walker. On days she cannot stroll in the Park or walk to town, she prefers to take her exercise in the long gallery.”

  “She must appreciate you as a companion, since you, too, enjoy regular walks in the park,” Charlotte said. At Miss Brereton’s startled expression, she added quickly, “Or so I understood you to say downstairs.”

  Clara’s countenance smoothed. “Yes. And we do often walk together, although this morning we did not. Lady Denham prefers to walk after the mist clears, and today it hung about later than is usual.”

  Little Mary gripped the handles and commenced bouncing. Her weight, however, was too slight to compress the springs very far, her legs too short to reach the footboard and push off with her feet. The resulting motion, therefore, was more a gentle bob than an energetic simulation of horseback riding.

  Mrs. Parker noticed a framed pencil sketch hanging on the other side of the room and called Charlotte’s attention to it. The two of them moved away from the chamber horse for a closer inspection of the sketch.

  “Miss Brereton, have you any idea who drew this?” Mrs. Parker asked.

  “Mr. Hollis himself, I believe. From what I understand, he became interested in drawing during his later years and could often be seen going out for a walk with a sketchbook in hand.”

  Mrs. Parker could not identify the drawing’s subject, and asked Miss Brereton to come have a look. Miss Brereton’s gaze darted to little Mary. At her present pace, a sudden uncontrolled dismount was unlikely, but there was always an unpredictable factor in any activity involving children. And horses, for that matter.

  “Go ahead,” Elizabeth said. “I will stay with her.”

  Miss Brereton came to Charlotte and Mrs. Parker, leaving Elizabeth alone with the budding equestrian.

  * * *

  “Are you enjoying your ride?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes,” little Mary said. “But I thought the horse would go faster.”

  The rough springs seemed to groan in pain. “It sounds as though it has not been ridden in decades. Perhaps it is an old, tired horse.”

  “I think she is just sleepy.”

  “Ah—you have determined that the horse is a mare, then?”

  “She is not exciting enough to be a stallion. But Tilly is a good horse. She just needs someone to ride her more often. How many more minutes may I ride?”

  Elizabeth was fairly certain that Lady Denham’s prescribed limit had passed, but she was reluctant to end the little girl’s delight. “I believe you have two minutes remaining,” she said.

  Determined to make the most of them, Mary tried to bounce harder, but with little success.

  “Shall I help you bring the horse to a trot?” Elizabeth offered. As Mary’s lightweight motions did not compress the seat’s springs anywhere near the extent to which an adult’s would, Elizabeth doubted the contraption was in any danger of becoming less valuable as a horse-for-hire in Lady Denham’s scheme. Besides, was not exercise good for a horse?

  “Oh, yes, please!” Mary answered.

  “Hold tight to the handles.”

  Elizabeth placed her hands on either side of Mary and pushed down on the leather top. From her angle, she still could not apply as much force as a seated adult would produce, but it was enough to release air through the side slits in the leather. And to produce giggles from the child.

  Mary cantered over the downs of her imagination until Elizabeth grew tired and told her it was time to bring the mount to a halt. With Elizabeth’s assistance, Mary climbed down, but lingered beside the chamber horse, running her fingers across the leather. “There, now, Tilly, that’s a good horse,” she said. “Would you like an apple?”

  She produced an imaginary apple from the folds of her dress, but seemed at a loss for how to feed it to a mare that had no head. She walked round the apparatus, starting with the side closest to Elizabeth, then moving to the back of the seat, and finally the far side.

  “Oh! What is this?”

  Elizabeth moved to Mary’s side just as Mary withdrew a folded piece of paper from one of the leather’s slits. Black marks and creases suggested that it had been caught in the seat’s coils. She opened the paper, revealing the words “woodcock,” “tailor,” “ivy,” and “rose”—the latter two repeatedly—scrawled in childish handwriting, interspersed with simple drawings of leafy vines, flowers, and birds.

  “What does it mean?” Mary asked.

  “It does not mean anything,” Elizabeth said, refolding the paper. “It is only a torn page from a child’s drawing book. But it does not belong to us, so let us put it back.”

  Returning the page to the seat’s mechanical interior, where it might suffer further damage, seemed a poor idea, so Elizabeth instead opened the drawer at the horse’s front.

  “Aha!” Mary said. “Here is Tilly’s mouth.”

  Mary pretended to feed the horse an apple. When she had done, Elizabeth slipped the sketchbook page into the drawer and slid it shut. The sound drew Miss Brereton’s attention back to them.

  “Have you finished your ride, Mary?” she asked. “Then let us show Miss Heywood and Mrs. Darcy the gallery. Do you think you can remember which portrait is Mr. Hollis?”

  Their party removed to the gallery, entering it through an anteroom on one end. The gallery ran the full length
of one side of the house and indeed offered a commanding view from its many windows. The mist had almost entirely cleared, revealing a great portion of Sanditon Park and the fence that surrounded it. A hedge maze and fountain were now visible, along with several structures dotting the landscape. A summerhouse that the mist had obscured from notice during the ladies’ approach to the Great House, now offered shade from the climbing sun. In another part of the park, a gazebo nestled in the center of a rose garden, while a thatched roof peeked out from the trees in a remote, shady corner of the property.

  “This is a lovely view,” Elizabeth said. “What is that building with the thatched roof?”

  “A hermitage,” Miss Brereton replied.

  “Indeed? Her ladyship keeps a hermit?”

  Although maintaining a hermit was a fashionable folly among some wealthy landowners, Elizabeth had never quite understood the appeal of supporting a recluse—the more eccentric, the better—on one’s property for the primary purpose of entertaining one’s guests with sightings of him during garden parties. In her opinion, the practice was beneath the dignity of both hermit and landlord. While Longbourn, her childhood home, had a hermitage on its property, it had never known an occupant. She supposed, however, that such arrangements did provide living quarters for the hermit on relatively easy terms, particularly for those who lacked the mental faculties or physical ability to support themselves through other work. Pride could not fill one’s belly or warm one’s bones on a frigid winter night.

  “No, the hermitage has not been used for decades—since the time of Mr. Hollis’s father. Archibald Hollis never replaced the last hermit who lived there, and Lady Denham considers hermits a frivolous expense.”

  * * *

  From the gallery window, Charlotte could clearly see the sloped bank upon which she had observed Miss Brereton and Sir Edward earlier.

  A glance at Clara Brereton showed that her attention, too, was drawn to the bank. She was not, however, regarding it with a soft look of fond memory. Rather, her face held a troubled expression, and Charlotte wondered whether the bank was a regular trysting-place for her and Sir Edward. Was Miss Brereton a persecuted heroine after all, prevented by her dependence on Lady Denham from being openly courted by Sir Edward? Charlotte would like to think Clara possessed better judgment than to swoon at the inflated discourse that Charlotte had observed made up a considerable portion of the baronet’s conversation, but hereditary titles had a way of adding imagined sense to even the silliest speeches and speakers.