Nanny Burnham kept her eyes on her stitches, her lips moving soundlessly as she seemed to count the row. “It is a fair port,” she said finally. “Most every soul who comes to England from the west enters there.”
“How unlucky for him to have encountered an accident,” I said. “I believe he has had more than his fair share of troubles on his journeys.”
Nanny Burnham’s thin brows rose. “That he has, missus. A volcano in some godless place was the death of him,” she said.
“Or so we thought,” Effie put in quickly.
“Aye. He has returned to us,” Nanny Burnham said, adding a few more stitches.
“It is not a godless place,” I said quickly. “The people in Java have their own deities, to whom they are every bit as devoted as any Anglican to the Church of England.”
Nanny Burnham raised astonished eyes. “Heathens! As devout as good Christian folk, why I never heard such a thing.”
I hastened to change the subject. “I am surprised you are not still in service at the Hall,” I said with more candor than tact. “With so many youngsters in the nursery, a nanny of your experience, and with such strong family feeling . . .” I let my voice trail off suggestively and she rose to the bait.
“Mrs. Charles Hathaway thought someone younger might be better,” she said with a sniff. “And an Irishwoman at that!” She stitched on and I thought she was finished, but when she turned the row, she picked up the thread of the topic once more. “My rheumatics have been troublesome,” she allowed. “And the Hall is terribly drafty—at least it was until the nurseries were redecorated. I hear there are carpets up there now, thick ones, up to your ankles,” she added in a scandalized tone.
“I understand the nurseries are very comfortable,” I agreed.
“Comfortable!” She snorted. “Children do not require comfortable nurseries. They need plenty of fresh air and wholesome food and exercise. And when they are sad, they need a bit of a cuddle,” she added with a fond look at Effie.
The girl rose and dropped a kiss to her old nanny’s cheek. “I never lacked for a cuddle with you around, Nanny B.”
“Of course not, poppet,” the old woman said, patting her. “Now, I am tired and I’ve dropped more stitches than I have set. Take your friend and leave me for a little doze, won’t you?”
I rose at once, and as I bade Nanny Burnham farewell, I heard a thud behind the closed door. “Just the cat,” she said, waving us on.
Effie and I emerged into the afternoon light. A soft breeze had blown up, smelling of heather and harebells. Effie was looking fierce and I gave her a questioning glance.
“I get so angry with her sometimes, I could scream with it,” she told me, her hands curling into small fists.
“Nanny Burnham?”
“Mary,” she said with an outthrust lip. “She is the reason Nanny B has to live in that tiny cottage instead of up at the Hall.”
“Nanny Burnham seems comfortable there,” I ventured.
“It is smaller and warmer,” she allowed, “but Mary has decided to move her again. She means to pull down the cottages on this side of the moor and put up a folly. A folly,” she said in obvious disgust.
“Where will Nanny Burnham go?” I asked.
“Mary is having Charles build a row of new cottages in Shepton Parva. It will be miles further to walk to see Nanny B,” Effie said. “But Mary says they will be better for Nanny and the shepherds to live in because they are hygienic.”
She carried on, cataloging her complaints about her sister-in-law, a litany to which I only half listened. I was too busy thinking of the thud behind the door and Nanny Burnham’s insistence that it had been the cat. I was thinking too of the plump calico that had been curled up on a hearth cushion, never moving for the duration of our visit. And I wondered exactly why Nanny Burnham had lied.
CHAPTER
10
Dinner that evening was a quiet affair. We ate with the family once more in the Great Hall. It had become clear that this room served a variety of purposes. With the long table at one end, it was the dining room during mealtimes, but the cluster of armchairs and sofas at the other end, grouped about the hearth, meant that it also served as a sort of drawing room where the family gathered after dinner. Charles Hathaway explained that he worked from his estate office, a small room near the kitchens, and that the main public wing, comprising library, breakfast room, drawing room, and ladies’ parlor, was in the process of renovation, as evidenced by the reams of wallpapers, carpets, paint pots, and scaffolding.
“And so the Great Hall must serve for now,” he said as we rose and made our way to the table. “But we are hardly within the walls these days. I am always out and about, either supervising the flocks or meeting with prospective constituents, and Mary is here, there, and everywhere, seeing to the renovations and the children. And of course, Granna has her suite, where she is able to keep herself quite comfortably.”
“Yes,” Mary Hathaway said with a tight smile at her grandmother-in-law, “Lady Hathaway is very happily settled in the master suite. We would not dream of asking her to move.”
It was painfully apparent that this was exactly what she wanted, but Lady Hathaway seemed blissfully oblivious. She merely reposed herself in the most comfortable chair—nearest the fire, I noticed—and waited for the rest of us to sit. “Jonathan returned with a headache this afternoon, but I have sent Anjali to ask him to come to us if it has eased,” Lady Hathaway told us. “He ought to join our little party.”
Charles and Mary exchanged glances but said nothing. Disposing of the natural history collection was entirely within Charles’ rights as the heir to the Hall, but it might appear tactless to make a show of doing it in front of the brother whose birthright he had usurped.
Effie noticed the glance and gave her brother a sly smile. “Well, that might put the cat amongst the pigeons,” she said. “You are selling off the Hall’s treasures without Jonathan’s approval.”
“I do not require his approval—” Charles began heatedly.
“Indeed you do not.” The voice came from the shadows under the stairs, and I began to wonder if the Hathaways kept that particular doorway dark solely to accommodate dramatic entrances. A tall figure stood there, his broad shoulders blocking what little of the light shone from the hallway behind. He moved forwards into the warmth of the fire, the golden light playing over his features. I had wondered if I would recognize him, expecting that after six years and experiences that must have left their tragic mark upon him, I might find it difficult to say with certainty.
But I knew him. His eyes settled curiously on me as Stoker rose and introductions were made. Hands were shaken. He came to me then and put out his hand.