The Lost Island Page 3

  This much was public knowledge. The Silver Service, however, had been able to dig a little deeper, thanks to its information network of well-placed servants. These sources reported that Lord Charnly had been implicated in the death of an old woman on his estate, though the matter had been hushed up, and the circumstances remained vague. Captain Vyne had left a string of broken hearts in his wake over the years, and was rumoured to have fathered two illegitimate children. The Reverend Blunt was said to have stolen from a charity that he himself had established for the relief of widows and orphans. Only Mr Ladlaw, the poet, appeared clear of wrongdoing.

  The visiting group of ladies comprised society favourites Alicia and Adele Lane; their aunt Lady Sylvia Lane, the Dowager Duchess of Wenbury; Frederick Blunt’s sister Honoria; and her companion Marian Smith, a poor relation.

  Pattern not only had to acquaint herself with the honoured guests, but the servants they would bring with them, though since these servants would be mixing with their fellows below stairs, getting to know them would be easy enough. Pattern’s focus must be the gentlemen. The lord, the soldier, the priest and the poet . . . united only in their passionate desire to win Miss Hawk’s hand.

  London’s drawing rooms were abuzz with talk of how Miss Hawk must finally be ready to make her decision. Why else would she gather her most ardent suitors together, and in Cornwall? The charitable view was that she wished to make her choice away from the pressures and distractions of town. The less well-meaning gossips thought that she – or her mama – intended to wring every last drop of drama from the occasion, and so had set up the party as a particularly vulgar competition, with herself as the prize.

  Pattern wondered how the other young ladies would feel, being little more than accessories to Miss Hawk’s beauty. It could give rise to a certain amount of tension and resentment, she imagined. But then Miss Hawk could only marry one gentleman. The disappointed suitors might well seek consolation elsewhere . . .

  Sir Whitby had told the Silver Service that he believed Lady Hawk and the Contessa di Falco were one and the same, and that Cassandra Hawk was likewise Cassiphone di Falco. Cassiphone had been one of the most eligible heiresses in Rome; Henry Whitby was only one of several suitors who she had invited to holiday on her mama’s island. The similarities with the present set-up on Cull could not be denied.

  But, if Henry had in fact been a victim of foul play, it was still possible that the crime was of the ordinary sort. Perhaps there had been a young lady whose affections Henry had slighted in favour of Miss Hawk, or a rival suitor who became dangerous in his desperation . . . Either of these could have done him an injury. Perhaps Miss Hawk and her mother had discovered this, and been threatened in some way by the perpetrator. Then, either from fear of danger, or dread of scandal, they had decided to change their identities and leave the whole sorry business behind them. That might explain why Miss Hawk’s time in Italy had not resulted in marriage, and why she and her mama had sought to reinvent themselves in London.

  Either way, Pattern knew she must try to keep an open mind on Lady Hawk’s alleged Dark Arts. Sir Whitby was feeling both grief and guilt over the loss of his ward. His judgement could not be trusted. Yet secretly Pattern hoped for some supernatural peril – to test her wits against common villainy would, Pattern felt, be a waste of her new-found expertise.

  At three o’clock sharp, the servantry gathered at the main entrance to the villa, forming a reception line to greet their employer. Only Mr Grey was absent. They were wearing their expensive new livery and arrayed in order of their station. Mr Perks had inspected them three times over to ensure no hair was out of place, no button done crooked, no smudge seen upon a shoe.

  A few minutes later, James the coachman could be seen driving the carriage along the winding avenue. After coming to a stop, narrowly avoiding a strutting peacock, Mr Perks hastened to assist the lady and her daughter down from their vehicle. ‘Welcome to Cull, milady.’ He proceeded to escort Lady Hawk down the line of servants, in the manner of two generals inspecting the troops.

  Lady Hawk had words of greeting for the senior staff, and a gracious smile and a nod for everyone else. She was tall and handsome, with a high arched nose and a great quantity of inky-black hair. Her complexion was enlivened by a pair of brilliant dark eyes and a full red mouth. The contrast to her daughter was striking. Miss Hawk was, indeed, a perfect English rose, as pale and dainty as her mother was bold and dark. She glided behind her with downcast eyes and a sweetly bland expression, holding a little pug dog in her arms.

  Lady Hawk’s maid, Miss Jenks, waited by the carriage. She was an elegant young person with a haughty expression, and dressed so finely she hardly looked like a servant. Even so, Pattern knew it was in her interests to befriend her. A lady’s maid was often privy to her mistress’s secrets, as Pattern herself had once been, and even if Miss Jenks had only been with Lady Hawk for a short while she was in a uniquely intimate position.

  Then there was Glaucus Grey, the only person to have been in the lady’s employ for longer than a few months. He, at least, must know something of her history . . .

  Pattern’s thoughts were running on so busily, it took a moment to realize that Lady Hawk had stopped in front of her.

  ‘Now, here’s a face I do not recognize.’

  Pattern bobbed a curtsey. ‘Please, milady, I am new to the position. My name is Penny, milady.’

  Mrs Robinson stepped forward to explain the original third housemaid’s desertion.

  ‘Penny, you say?’ Lady Hawk smiled. She had the merest trace of a foreign accent. ‘So which of your parents enjoyed a Classical education?’

  ‘I – um – I’m sorry, milady . . . I don’t quite—’

  ‘Never mind, child. I’m only teasing. Perhaps you have not heard of the original Penelope: the long-suffering wife of that rascal Odysseus.’

  ‘No, milady.’ Pattern had little in the way of a formal education, least of all a Classical one, though she had endeavoured to make up for this by close study of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. She had chosen ‘Penny’ because it was a shortened form of both Penelope and Pendragon, her newly acquired surname.

  Fortunately, Lady Hawk did not pursue the subject. ‘Well, I hope you will be happy with us, little Penelope.’ She raised her voice to address the rest of the servants. ‘Indeed, I hope you will all be happy here. A gathering such as this is hard work for everyone, I know. But I am sure we will show our guests every hospitality. They have been chosen with care, and I am determined to give them exactly what they deserve, for my island is a special place. A sacred spot! Serve it well, and it shall reward you.’

  The Mistress of Cull might describe the isle as a sacred spot, but it was certainly a very curious one. After all, Pattern reflected, there could not be many woods in England that were both blessed with snowdrops out of season and infested with snakes. But though Lady Hawk seemed to be a somewhat unusual employer her servants thought none the worse of her for it. The good order of the house, and the comfort of their own quarters, had done much to raise their spirits. From the light-hearted chatter that followed the inspection, Pattern realized she was alone in thinking that Lady Hawk’s promise to give her guests ‘exactly what they deserve’ might conceal a note of threat.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It does not invariably happen that persons remain single because they are not worth having, or that others are married because they are.

  Mrs Taylor, Practical Hints to Young Females (1815)

  Eager as Pattern was to explore the island, her duties confined her to the house, and until she was granted some time off she would have to make the best of whatever she could discover around her.

  The villa certainly had more character than the London house. Songbirds in cages chirruped in the mosaic-tiled central courtyard, where a fountain splashed into a marble basin and miniature orange trees scented the air. The drawing room’s ceiling was painted with blue skies and cavorting cherubs, and there was a music room w
ith walls covered in frescoes of vines and birds. The furniture was a curious mixture of stolid English pieces, common to any traditional country house, and Classical antiquities – marble busts, clay urns, bronzes of gods and monsters.

  ‘Rum sort of place, ain’t it?’ remarked Nate, the hall boy, passing Pattern in the upstairs gallery. ‘As if we’ve wandered onstage at the music hall.’

  Pattern looked up from the Greek vase she was inspecting. It was black and red, and painted with a very horrid monster, which had six female heads, and twelve tentacles instead of legs. The vase was displayed in an alcove beneath a framed needlepoint tapestry of an English country garden, embroidered with the title ‘Home, Sweet Home’.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Like we’re here as decoration – same as that.’ He gestured to the needlepoint. ‘Or the billiards table or the toast rack or the copy of The Times in the hall. To make it all seem more . . . believable. Because even the sunshine feels different here – foreign. Have you noticed? And that garden! I ain’t no gardener, but even I can see there’s things growing out there that shouldn’t be blooming in England at all, let alone England in March.’

  ‘Yes, it was strange to see snowdrops still flowering in the wood. But I was pleased, too, as they are a favourite of mine.’ Pattern was remembering the muddy patch of hedge outside the Academy of Domestic Servitude. A single clump of snowdrops had grown under it each spring, and she had always thought their appearance a miraculous sight. ‘Mr Grey did say the climate of Cull is exceptional.’

  ‘He’s a mighty strange old cove.’ Nate shrugged. ‘I dunno. Could be I’m going soft in the head. But I think we’d do well to keep our wits about us.’

  Pattern was cheered by this conversation. It felt good to know she was not, after all, the only person here who felt unsettled by Cull.

  The rest of the servantry were mostly preoccupied with Miss Hawk’s matrimonial prospects. During preparations for tea, the conversation turned – as it often did, whenever Mr Perks and Mrs Robinson were out of earshot – to gossip about the young lady.

  ‘She’s bound to accept one of her suitors by the end of their stay, don’t you think?’ Elsie pondered aloud. ‘Why else would she have got them all down here, with the sea air so wholesome and the views so delightful? I can’t imagine a prettier place for a proposal. And then we shall have a wedding to prepare for!’ The housemaid looked as delighted by the prospect as if it were her own marriage. ‘But however will she chose?’

  The other servants were, of course, already acquainted with Miss Hawk’s admirers. Nobody liked Lord Charnly, as he was rude and insolent. Captain Vyne was a favourite with the maids, being so handsome, and Nate liked him too, for back in London the Captain had given him a fistful of coins once just to deliver a letter. Mr Ladlaw also had his champions.

  ‘Such a romantic young man!’ Mrs Palfrey said with a sigh. As well as being one of the finest cooks in London, she was of a sentimental bent.

  ‘And it hardly matters he’s only a poet,’ put in Jane, the head housemaid, more practically, ‘because she has wealth enough for both of them.’

  By contrast, the clergyman, Reverend Blunt, was deemed far too boring to excite anyone’s admiration. ‘Imagine,’ said Mabel, the younger kitchen maid. ‘He’d be preaching sermons at you all day!’

  When they had somewhat quietened down, Pattern asked if anyone knew of a Mr Henry Whitby; her cousin was in service to his family, and had told her he was a great admirer of Miss Hawk. She was able to describe him in some detail, since the Silver Service had arranged for her to study his portrait. (Even allowing for the artist’s flattery, the young man did not appear particular dashing, being plump and snub-nosed, with somewhat bulging eyes.) In addition to this, she knew he was a bad gambler and heavy drinker, had a passion for oysters, and favoured Portuguese snuff.

  But neither his name nor description meant anything to anyone present, and the conversation soon moved to whether Miss Hawk would be likely to favour a wedding gown of silver lamé and white satin, as had been seen in the recent wedding of the Hon. Lucinda Rice to the Marquis of Harlymoor.

  If Miss Hawk was capable of feeling as deeply as her suitors did, she certainly hid it well, and Pattern was increasingly curious about what passions might burn under the girl’s quiet exterior. Fatigued by their journey, Lady Hawk had said that she and her daughter would take their supper in their rooms, and so Pattern volunteered to help Miss Jenks by delivering the young lady’s tray.

  She found Miss Hawk already in her nightgown, sitting at her dressing table and combing her hair in front of the mirror. Her curls shone lustrous in the candlelight.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, as Pattern laid down the supper. She did not take her eye off her reflection.

  When Pattern came to collect the tray later, the plates were clean. But it looked as if the girl had not moved. She was still sitting at her dressing table, still combing her hair, the same sweet vacant smile on her face.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hospitality is a virtue recommended in Scripture.

  Mrs Taylor, Practical Hints to Young Females

  Lady Hawk’s guests were ferried to the island by a specially chartered boat the next morning, since a fishing vessel would hardly be suitable for such important passengers. Frederick Blunt, the clergyman, escorting his sister and her companion, Miss Smith, arrived with the Lane ladies and their aunt in the morning. The other three gentlemen came after luncheon. Once everyone was assembled, tea was taken on the lawn, and, given the small number of staff, Pattern and the other housemaids helped to serve it. It was the ideal opportunity to survey the party.

  The trestle tables were laid with beautiful lace cloths, and urns of tea steamed gently among tiers of Mrs Palfrey’s finest cakes. The young ladies, pale and gauzy in their summer frocks, seemed almost to float upon the grass. Everyone remarked on the glorious weather and the picturesque scene, congratulated themselves on escaping the tedium of town and marvelled that they were a mere four miles from the English coast. Meanwhile, the servants, sweating in their new livery, scurried back and forth with more tea, more jam, more scented napkins.

  Lady Sylvia Lane, the elderly Dowager, did not look likely to be a very fearsome chaperone. Indeed, on sitting down on a wicker chair in the shade, she very soon fell asleep. Her nieces Alicia and Adele were hard to tell apart, with their bouncing ringlets, rosy cheeks and matching trills of laughter. Honoria Blunt was a regal brunette who spoke with authority on any subject, whether Fordyce’s Sermons or the Lord Mayor’s Ball. Only Marian Smith, Miss Blunt’s companion, seemed in the doldrums. She was a small, faded-looking person, with red-rimmed eyes, which – so Pattern noticed – were often fixed on Mr Ladlaw.

  Pattern knew at once that Mr Ladlaw must be the poet because he so clearly looked the part, with ink-stained fingers, a brooding expression and an unruly shock of dark hair. Lord Charnly was handsome enough, with heavy-lidded eyes and a jutting jaw, but his manner was very rough. Pattern resolved to keep her distance from him where at all possible; the Silver Service’s informants reported that his violent temper had seen him involved in several brawls, and even one rumoured death.

  Perhaps the Reverend Blunt was aware of His Lordship’s reputation, for he cast him several disapproving looks. However, given the clergyman’s history of stealing from his own charity, Pattern did not think he was really in a position to judge. Whereas Reverend Blunt was rather stout and ungainly in appearance, Captain Vyne positively glittered with charm. As fair and dashing as a fairy-tale prince, he winked at Jane, the prettiest of the maids, said something that made Elsie blush and – before she fell asleep – even had the old Dowager aflutter with his smiles and compliments.

  Miss Hawk, meanwhile, did nothing but smile and nod and make occasional remarks about the weather. She was dressed in her customary white, her only adornment a gold charm in the shape of a key, which she always wore round her neck, and though she made for a very pretty
picture Pattern found it curious that neither the liveliness of the Lane sisters nor the dash of Miss Blunt seemed to make any kind of impression on the gentlemen. If the other ladies were hoping that more than one engagement might result from the party, it looked, for the moment, as though they would be disappointed.

  The gentlemen were already well acquainted with each other. For several weeks, they had been scowling at each other at parties, suppers and soirées spent in pursuit of Miss Hawk. Their competitive gallantry towards her, and insincere civility towards one another, set Pattern’s teeth on edge.

  Perhaps she was not the only person to feel this way.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Honoria Blunt, the clergyman’s sharp sister, ‘there is so much politeness in the air it is rather like breathing in a cloud of powdered sugar.’

  ‘It was certainly very kind of dear Miss Hawk to invite us,’ gushed Adele, who, along with her sister, had set upon a strategy of relentless cheerfulness. ‘We are such new acquaintances, after all.’

  ‘I am sure that after our stay here,’ Alicia trilled, ‘we will all be the best of friends!’

  ‘Perhaps someone should tell that to the gentlemen,’ said Miss Smith, though so quietly the only person to hear her was Pattern.

  Miss Hawk’s mama came late to tea, emerging from the villa with a magnificent peregrine falcon on her arm. It was wearing a jewelled collar and sat on her shoulder as she fed it tit-bits of iced cake. ‘I adore birds and beasts of every kind,’ she declared. ‘And they learn to love me in return. This is my darling Alphonse. See how docile he is – like a baby! All my pets are.’