Face Down In The Marrow-Bone Pie Part 9

"No. Still, this detail may be important. Master Grimshaw did not mention eryngo. You have done well, Jennet."

Basking in the praise, Jennet dared ask again the question her mistress had evaded earlier. "Madam, if this Edith is not Appleton's ghost, who is?"

"There is no ghost," Lady Appleton reminded her in stern tones.

"Yes, madam." Jennet sighed. "But if there was one, who do people think she would be?"

With a rueful half smile, Lady Appleton relented. "Lawyer Grimshaw's suggestion is that she is Sir George's fifth wife, Jane, a woman who died of the sweat some eight years past."

Jennet frowned, once more gnawing thoughtfully on her lower lip. This time she really was concentrating on the mystery. "That could be the answer."

"What do you know of Jane Appleton?" The current Lady Appleton's voice sharpened and her face took on the pinched look it sometimes got when she was expecting unpleasant tidings.

Jennet remembered several things all at once, things she'd heard about Jane during her visit to Denholm. It would not be politic to repeat all of them, she decided, at least not until she could determine just how much her mistress already knew.

"The maids at Denholm spoke of her," Jennet said cautiously.

"Why would those at Denholm now know anything? The woman died years ago and she was not wed all that long to Sir George. I understand that she was a great deal younger than he. I cannot imagine she would have much in common with Effie Denholm. Do you mean to say she was often there as a guest?"

"Guest?" Jennet permitted herself a small, superior smile. She did have in her possession information that Lady Appleton lacked. "No, madam, she was never a guest there. She was family. Jane was Mistress Denholm's elder daughter. It is for Jane Appleton that she still wears mourning."

Chapter Fifteen.

The letter from his wife arrived just after Sir Robert Appleton finished a fine breakfast of fried tripe, grilled beef, and excellent thick soup. Enclosed in it was a list of ingredients.

"She feared the pot of salve to treat King Francis's rash would be broken in transit," he said, glancing at the first part of the message, "and sends me the recipe in the event I need to procure more." The mixture was composed of Saracen's root, St.-John's-wort, herb-of-the-Sun, serpent's-tongue, and oil of lavender.

Blessing his wife for her thoughtful gesture, Sir Robert resumed reading the short letter. A moment later he swore fluently. He had to take a long swallow of ale before he could control his anger.

"Trouble?" Pendennis asked.

"When you marry, Pendennis," Robert advised his old friend, "make certain you have chosen a biddable woman."

She had written on the first of October. On that very day she'd left Kent. By now she'd have long since reached Appleton Manor. It was far too late to go after her and bring her back, even if he could simply abandon his mission and return to England.

Resigned, Sir Robert folded the letter together with the list of ingredients and tucked them into the front of his doublet. He'd known life with Susanna would be difficult, even before he'd married her. She'd gotten too much education. He'd agreed to the match because she also had a great deal of money, and because the duke of Northumberland was her guardian and had thought her a suitable bride.

"She has done nothing to threaten your mission, I trust." Pendennis sounded only mildly concerned.

"No. This is a personal matter. Against my wishes, she has gone north to deal with a problem at my estate in Lancas.h.i.+re."

"Women should not meddle in men's business," Pendennis said. "You may be sure that I will heed your advice. When I wed, I will select a bride who understands that."

Sir Robert found he had to laugh at his friend's naive certainty. It had been his experience that most men underestimated their wives. At least he'd been forewarned what to expect from his. "Susanna claims women should run things. She says men always make matters more complicated than they need to be."

"Queen Elizabeth is a woman and she's shown no great inclination toward simplicity."

Sir Robert did not answer. He had difficulty enough understanding his wife's thought processes, and he knew her well. He feared he'd never comprehend the queen's mind.

Chapter Sixteen.

The twenty-second day of October, the second Sunday Susanna had spent at Appleton Manor, began badly and got worse. She'd grown accustomed, in Kent, to breaking her fast with manchet bread and ale or b.u.t.ter and eggs. The new cook, who had arrived the previous day, sent by Master Grimshaw, provided brawn and mustard, beef, and what Jennet said was called brewis, slices of bread with fat broth poured over them.

She was further disappointed by the church services in the village. The lay reader could barely mumble his way through the service in the Book of Common Prayer. On the way home, detouring toward Denholm, she broached the subject of praying in her own chapel instead.

"But you have no chaplain," Mark pointed out.

"Then I will hire one. Many country households keep a chaplain and have him double as a clerk or schoolmaster. Sir William Cecil has one at his house in Wimbledon. Perhaps he can recommend a candidate." She frowned. "I believe I must write to the local bishop for permission."

"This is the territory of the Bishop of Chester, madam, but no one at present holds that seat."

"Chester? Not Chichester?"

"No, madam."

"A pity. I am acquainted with the bishop who held Bath and Wells until Queen Mary's reign. 'Tis rumored he'll soon be installed at Chichester."

In truth she was better acquainted with his wife. Susanna smiled, remembering her last meeting with that very determined lady. Agatha Barlow had but one goal in life. She would have each of her daughters marry a bishop, too. Susanna did not discount the possibility. There was nothing more powerful than a mother's love.

By the time they came to Denholm, Susanna was beginning to feel more cheerful again, but her good humor abruptly vanished at the discovery that Effie and her entire family had gone to Manchester during the week. The Denholms had a town house there and they meant to remain long enough to attend church services at St. Mary's before they returned to the country.

"A pity you did not know about the town house," Mark said as they turned away. "You might have stayed there instead of putting up at the inn."

"And have her servants report my every movement to their mistress? Thank you, no."

Susanna's second trip to Manchester had been brief and frustrating. Her search for someone who sold eryngo had been futile. Few had even heard of the delicacy. She could readily understand why. The sea holly grew plentifully near her own home in Kent, along the sh.o.r.e, but here it would be a greater rarity than the currants and dates, especially in its candied form.

The process was complex enough to make the end result expensive. The roots, which were of the bigness of a man's finger, had to be picked, washed and then boiled until they were soft, then peeled and divested of all their pith. Then they were soaked a whole day in a syrup of sugar, white of egg, rosewater, cinnamon, and musk. Finally, they were heated over a very hot fire for one hour. Eryngo, this candied root of sea holly, had a very sweet and pleasant taste and was said to restore the aged and amend the defects of the young.

Someone he knew must have given Bexwith the ingredient. But who? And how had it been procured?

Jennet, fidgeting nervously at Susanna's side, made her aware she'd reined in her horse and had been staring back at the walls of Denholm, saying nothing, for several minutes. Annoyed, both at herself and the maidservant, Susanna snapped at her. "What ails you, girl?"

"I like not this wilderness."

"Do you expect to encounter the ghost between Denholm and Appleton?"

Jennet did not deny it, but she made a valiant effort to appear unconcerned. "There have been no further appearances of the ghost. Perhaps it would be wise to leave well enough alone."

Not possible, Susanna thought. There were still too many unanswered questions. Repairs on the manor house kept her occupied, but not too busy to continue to contemplate the mysteries surrounding Bexwith's death . . . and that of Sir George.

And leaving Denholm, routed, meant a lost opportunity. She could scarce question Effie's houseservants while their mistress was away, but there were others here. She turned her horse. "I believe I will stop a while and view the floor in the Denholms' chapel. Did you not tell me, Jennet, that the tiler is Grizel's father?"

Jennet's long-suffering sigh answered her.

Dismounting, Susanna walked briskly to the chapel. Her first glimpse of the interior brought her to a halt, pleased and amazed by the quality of the workmans.h.i.+p. A mult.i.tude of tall, narrow windows shone with stained gla.s.s. And the light glancing through them illuminated a pattern of concentric circular bands of two-color, decorated floor tiles.

"Magnificent." What had been merely an excuse to poke about now became a very real desire. She wanted to meet the artisan who had produced this floor. She wanted him to come and work for her.

Jack Brown the tiler was not difficult to locate, but he turned out to be a sinewy little man with bulging biceps and a surly expression on his thin-lipped face. He heard Lady Appleton out in silence, then grunted in what she hoped was agreement to work for her.

"I have need of roofing tiles, as well."

He cackled at that. "Roof and ridge tiles require no skill."

"You are a craftsman. I understand that. But if you-"

With remarkable rudeness and lack of respect, Jack cut her off in midsentence. "I've no use for Appleton. My girl was a bonny and buxom la.s.s before she went to work there. Fear of the place and its ghost have turned her into a shadow of her former self. No good will come of opening that accursed house again. Your husband, madam, should come and close it up. Or burn it down, mayhap. Total destruction is the only way to root out evil."

"Nonsense. There is no longer any evil present, and I do much doubt there ever was. Men may be cruel, Master Brown, but the places in which they live are innocent of all malevolence."

"I've no use for Appleton or the Appletons."

"We pay well."

"Aye. So Grizel was told."

"Your daughter had a fright, but I a.s.sure you that my husband's manor is not haunted."

"So you say."

"So I say." She stood as tall as he and stared him square in the eye.

"Appletons have much to make up for. Your husband should have kept tighter rein on that old lecher he left in charge."

"I agree. Things will change now. My next steward will be a married man." The tiler's att.i.tude made Susanna wonder if he, too, might have thought he had reason to rid the world of John Bexwith. She added Jack Brown to her list of suspicious characters.

Brown, meanwhile, indulged in a long, brooding silence, then rewarded her with a curt nod. "Then again, I am all but finished here. And so I will work for you. For a price."

An hour later, Susanna resumed the journey home, her skills at haggling sorely tested but her newest plan, to renovate Appleton's chapel, now well advanced. "The tiler will visit later in the week," she told Jennet and Mark. "He's agreed to design a paving similar to that at Denholm and make the segmented tiles for the circular arrangement and the decorated oblong tiles to use as borders, but he informs me that kilns are fired only in the summer months. This is the season for digging clay and carting it to yards, where it is left in heaps until Christmas. Fortunately for the leaks in Appleton's roof, Master Brown will be able to use ready-made tiles for repairs there. He's willing to do that much now, and begin to plan the design for the chapel."

"If he cannot fire the kiln, and if the work at Denholm is nearly finished, why does he linger there?"

"A good question, Jennet. Perhaps the winter's lodging was part of his fee. And he does have a daughter in service at Denholm."

Once more reminded of the reason behind her interest in Grizel, Susanna looked back over her shoulder at the distant manor house, wis.h.i.+ng she'd thought to take time to inspect the herb garden while she was there. Another day, she decided. Now she was ready for home and her dinner.

Susanna and her servants rode on to Appleton Manor. Silence met them, a great, blissful quiet. For the first time in days, no workmen were abuilding because it was the sabbath. During the past week, when Susanna was not making a quick visit to Manchester or overseeing the planting, she'd spent most of her time supervising the beginning of repairs to the house.

"I have not seen Dame Cat lately," she remarked to Jennet as she dismounted.

Neither Jennet nor Mark had, either.

Leaving her mare in the stable, Susanna searched there first. She was not overly concerned, for she had a good idea what the cat was doing. She was, however, mildly curious to know how many kittens had been born.

Later that afternoon, her stomach full and nothing more pressing to do on this day she'd planned to spend visiting her neighbor, Susanna began a methodical sweep of the outbuildings in search of the cat. Within an hour she met with success.

The nest was hidden in the chapel, behind the altar. Susanna leaned closer, counting heads, but before she could finish enumerating Dame Cat's litter, she made a discovery that quite distracted her.

"White cloth," she whispered.

The kittens were curled up on top of a piece of fabric. Their mother might have found it anywhere, mayhap caught on a branch. Or hidden somewhere close at hand. A pity Dame Cat could not talk, for this, most a.s.suredly, was part of the costume worn by the ghost of Appleton Manor.

Chapter Seventeen.

"She took Bess with her," Jennet grumbled as she and Mark walked the short distance from the house to the small private chapel at Appleton Manor.

"Do you hear me complaining?"

Although Mark smiled at her, and seemed willing to do most of the actual work she'd been a.s.signed, Jennet was not appeased. She'd been given the responsibility for cleaning out the chapel. It was an important task, but she felt she was missing out on the adventure, for who knew what might be happening at Denholm?

"I am glad you are here and safe," Mark said.

"Here and given much to do in little time," Jennet shot back.

She surveyed the interior with a sense of vague foreboding. Everything was covered with dust, and in the dim light the thought of all the long-dead Appletons beneath their feet in the vault increased her sense of dread. When Mark touched her arm she jumped and shrieked. He barely contained a laugh as she glared at him.

"Tidy the place, she says," Jennet grumbled, trying to ignore the frisson of awareness that streaked through her when he took hold of her again, offering a soothing stroke of one thumb along the side of her face to ease away her fright. Her voice was a trifle husky as she continued her litany of complaints. "And at the same time she forbids me to disturb Dame Cat and her litter."

"Duty must always come before personal desires," Mark murmured, "but in this case my personal desires and my duty are as one." He slid his hand down to her shoulder, forcing her more deeply into an embrace. His lips were only inches from her own. "I have been wanting to talk with you alone, Jennet. You have been avoiding me."

"If you are going to ask me to marry you again, you may save your breath." She pulled away and stalked toward the altar Lady Appleton had told her concealed the cat's nest. She'd been avoiding temptation, 'twas true. Ever since they'd come to Appleton, Mark had changed, become more compelling. Where once she'd been certain of her ability to remain in control, now she doubted herself. "I have no mind to become any man's possession," she muttered as she reached her goal.

Mark took the rejection with his usual good humor, mostly because, Jennet supposed, he did not believe she meant what she said. Men! They were an arrogant species.

A closer look at the chapel confirmed that opinion. Sir George and his five wives were buried in the vault beneath, but above ground there was a bra.s.s memorial. It showed the man's likeness in such great detail that Jennet could see Sir Robert's resemblance to his father, though she did think her master was more handsome. The wives, however, were etched with a sameness that robbed them of any individual ident.i.ty, as if each of them had lost her personality upon becoming Lady Appleton.

Dame Cat sent a baleful glare in Jennet's direction when the maidservant knelt down in front of the altar. The feline was lodged in comfort and did not mean to allow either herself or her litter to be disturbed.

"No respect for religion," was Mark's indulgent comment as he, too, bent to inspect the little family. He was smiling as he said the words.