Master of Gothic House 2

 

Chapter 2

 

Edwin wandered into the village whilst Ram Gopal went to see if there were any letters for ‘An Indian Gentleman.’ He mused that the church and rectory were most unusual, in that the rectory was built directly onto the church tower. The other cottages, mostly built of a mix of stone, flint, and wattle-and-daub nestled around the church on the triangular green, dominated by a pair of elm trees. The cottages all appeared to be thatched with reed, provided by the reedbeds of the river which ran in a loop around the small eminence of the church hill, suggesting a reason why the cottages huddled together out of way of flooding, with fields on the other side of the river. Some cottages straggled down a road towards a bridge over the river, which lead to Gothic House, on its own slight rise, half a mile from the village proper. The river was set about with aldercarr and reedbeds, giving the name to Aldermede. A girl came out of the church, and looked at Edwin with some curiosity. Edwin thought her older than a young lady who could strictly be called a ‘girl’ but then, she was dressed in mourning, which never flatters anyone, and bore the signs of grief.  Her clothes were unfashionable, old, and well-cared for, but unquestionably those of a lady.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Oh! I am passing through, as you might say,” said Edwin. “I was intrigued by the intimate proximity of the church and, I conclude, the rectory, it being a larger cottage than most.”

“Oh, that stems back to the great storm in 1703,” said the young woman. “There were three elms on the green then, but one fell, and did so much damage to the church tower that it was decided to rebuild it. And I don’t know how it happened, but a mistake was made, and the tower was bigger than expected, and encroached on the rectory. So, rather than start again, it was incorporated into the tower with a door right into the ringing chamber. And very nice it was in inclement weather... when I was the daughter of the rector,” she concluded sadly.

“And now you are not?” asked Edwin.

“My parents were not young when I was born, which is why they called me ‘Angela,’ their little miracle angel,” she said, with a self-deprecating laugh. “Both thought that Angelica or Angelina, which are literary names, were too fancy, so Angela it was. And Papa died. The new rector let my mother and I stay on as cook-housekeepers and general servants, but now my mother has died and is no chaperone, I have two days to leave; but you have no interest in my affairs. Unless you have a wife who needs a maid,” she said.

“My dear young lady, you are a lady,” said Edwin. “Not a maid.”

“Not well enough educated in the right things to be a governess,” said Angela. “Papa taught me too many skills fitted for a boy, and I am, moreover, more capable as a gardener than a teacher of botany. Though I have answered an interesting advertisement from an Indian gentleman.” She gave him a straight look. “I do not think there can be many in rural Essex.”

“Maybe not,” said Edwin. “But a fair man will make no difference between any applicants when he views their letters.”

“Of course,” said Angela. “And I know that being ginger is against me.”

“Oh, I am sure the advertiser has no opinion on that,” said Edwin. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“Yes, I am going to stay with our old cook; she was Papa’s pensioner, and she managed to save enough to rent a small house in Chelmsford, and she sells baked goods. I can help her with that.”

Edwin nodded.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said.  “We may meet again, but I sincerely wish you well.”

“Thank you,” said Angela. “I knew I was a fool to comment, and now I have lost any chance, but thank you for being civil to me, even if I was rather forward.”

“Oh, I will not let it affect my judgement,” said Edwin. “If  my comptroller shortlists you, and we meet again, I will pretend not to have met you.”

“I... thank you,” said Angela. She dropped a neat curtsey, and stood back to let him go on his way into the church. It was a fine one for its kind, with an angel roof, perhaps something which had influenced her father in his choice of name.

“We have a fine flight of angels,” said a male voice. “I am the Reverend Beckett, can I... oh!” he gasped as Edwin turned around.

“It is a fine wool church,” said Edwin. “Only single hammer beams but the angels are well carved. I believe you are the new incumbent?”

“Yes, indeed, the former rector was one Michael Cubitt,” said Beckett. “Did you know him?”

“Not well,” said Edwin, mendaciously. “He wrote and asked me to make sure his daughter was well cared for; I believe he may have been dying. I wonder if you can help me trace her?”

“I have had to send her away, it was ineligible for her to stay in a bachelor household when her mother died,” said Beckett, hastily. “I have no idea where she might be going. I... I have been staying in the inn whilst she vacates the rectory.”

“Oh, you had no thought of marriage with her, then, as you are a bachelor?” asked Edwin.

“My goodness, no! The girl has no accomplishments at all, cannot embroider, nor play the pianoforte, and she is more at home in an old smock working in the dirt in the garden! This might not be much of a living, but I expect to progress somewhere better, and I cannot take a bride who is scarcely more than a peasant when I go.”

“Oh, I see,” said Edwin.

Beckett smiled.

“Yes, even a foreigner must understand how it is,” he said.

“I wouldn’t know; I don’t know any foreigners,” said Edwin.  “The living is under Lord Aldermede, I conjecture?”

“Yes, I was appointed by the old lord; we are hoping that his nephew may visit us some day,” said Beckett.

“Well, I must be on my way; perhaps one of your servants will know where the girl has gone,” said Edwin. “I would like to apprise her of the small legacy which was left for her from her father’s investments in certain holdings.”

“She is still in the house for now, but it would be ineligible to call on her, even if you were...” he tailed off.

“White?” asked Edwin, with gentle malice. “I am held to favour my mother, who was a princess in India before she lowered herself to marry my father. It was a love match; and of such, the Good Lord approves.”

“Er... yes, quite,” said Beckett.

Edwin left, by the main door, downhill of the church, picking the bunch of flowers from the rectory garden which a goat was striving to reach, and holding them for the creature to devour.

“Well, my friend, that was interesting,” he murmured, scratching the goat’s poll. “I don’t like the new vicar, and it may not be eligible for a young girl to stay with him, but as I understand it, she can scarcely have buried her mother; there is a fresh grave over there, with a grave but a few months older beside it, and I imagine that will be the Reverend Cubitt and his relict. To avoid marrying her because they do not suit is one thing, but for such reasons... I think the new viscount will find another incumbent. Indeed, yes, I believe Archie Payne, who was at university with me, is waiting for a living.”

He strolled back towards Gothic House, whence, once on the main road, he was overtaken by Ram Gopal in the curricle, and taken back to the house.

“Four dozen letters,” said Ram Gopal.

“I might have to send you back to the bank there, with a letter covering an inheritance made to a Miss Cubitt,” said Edwin. “The only child of the previous rector, and treated with some unkindness by the current rector.”

“So, you are making up an inheritance?”

“The young lady has applied to our advertisement,” said Edwin. “And her clothes are virtually rags. Those I invite must be able to hold up their heads in front of each other.”

“Do you need the other answers?” asked Ram Gopal, bluntly.

“Yes,” said Edwin. “So far, all I feel for the girl is pity, and some admiration for how well she holds herself.  If I do not marry her, I will make her my pensioner, however. She is one of my local people and as such under my protection.”

“I am surprised she was not under the protection of either of the former viscount’s sons, if she is pretty,” said Ram Gopal, cynically. “I doubt being the child of man of the cloth would stop either of them from what I have heard.”

“Fortunately for her, she is only now coming into what I believe will be a serene beauty,” said Edwin. “I strongly suspect she is only just growing out of being a trifle gawky,” he added. “She is also ginger, which many people account a fault.”

Ram Gopal nodded.

“I will be pleased to return to the bank with a banker’s draft,” he said.

“I appreciate you, old friend,” Edwin said.

 

 

When Angela Cubitt reached her old cook’s little shop in Chelmsford, she was welcomed with a hug, and the news that there was a letter from the bank.

Angela paled. Letters from banks were rarely good news, in her experience. However, putting off opening it would not help, so she plied a hat pin to break the seal and read, going white and then red, and then white again.

“What is it, Miss Angela, my ducky?” asked Mrs. Partridge, the ‘Mrs.’  a courtesy for her position.

“I... apparently papa invested with a Mr. Ringshall and there’s a draft for seven hundred pounds from the maturing investment!”

“Well, that’s something as will help you when I’m gone,” said Mrs. Partridge.

“Oh, Cookie! I... I was thinking that if I bought some fabric and employed a girl, I’d not feel so dowdy to... to meet the Indian gentleman,” said Angela, who had told Mrs. Partridge everything.

“Aye, but it won’t hurt to ask if you can’t re-invest some of it too,” said Mrs. Partridge.

“Yes, that’s very wise,” said Angela.  She stepped round to the bank to arrange this, to the slight consternation of the manager, had she but known it, who had been asked to write the letter on behalf of Mr. Ringshall by Ram Gopal, who had borne cash to him for that purpose, explaining that Mr. Ringshall was the brother-in-law of his master, Viscount Aldermere. Letters exchanged between them had, however, been shown, and Mister Nokes of the Colchester and Chelmsford general bank was moved to agree with the young lady that reinvestment of half the sum was a very wise move, and drove himself into London with the sum secure in his waistcoat pocket to see Mr. Ringshall personally.

Mr. James Ringshall was used to the quixotic kindness of his brother-in-law, and did not turn a hair.

He fully anticipated doubling the young lady’s investment before the New Year came around, and knew that Edwin would approve.

“Oh, Jimmie, do you think Edwin has a Case at last?” asked Sarah, when her husband confided in her.

“No idea, m’dear, and don’t you go interfering,” said Mr. Ringshall. “I don’t know what maggot Edwin has in his head, but there’s no point trying to head him off when he’s got the bit between his teeth.  He has me arranging for your great aunt to go to Chelmsford and provide a chaperone for a number of girls.”

“Oh! It was him then, who advertised for ladies willing to marry an Indian gentleman!” said Sarah. “I suppose I am too young to go as chaperone, and vet them for him.”

“And too far gone with our second child,” said Mr. Ringshall, firmly.  “I am sure Edwin is capable of making up his own mind without you.”

Sarah was forced to hold that this was true; Edwin went his own way, and was distressingly often correct to do so, so that one could not hold his stubbornness against him. She was very fond of her brother, and her firstborn rejoiced under the name ‘Edwin James Giles Annesley Ringshall’ for the honouring of all the men in her life.

 

oOoOo

 

Unaware of the careful use to which Angela put his covert gift, Edwin turned his attention, with the aid of Hymes, Mrs. Hymes, and Ram Gopal, to the extremely full mail-bags as there had been more when Ram Gopal had returned.

“Good G-d!” said Edwin. “There must be hundreds of letters here.”

“Two-hundred and thirty-two,” said Ram Gopal. “And I have extracted Miss Cubitt’s letter to put in the file to be interviewed.”

“Auntie Evermore is going to be taken aback,” said Edwin, then coloured. “It’s a joke on me not hearing her name right when we were very little, her name is Elinor. She took it in good part, and said that she intended to live a long time, but ‘Evermore’ was probably a slight exaggeration. She’s going to have fun making comments about them, I wish she had been able to join me to read letters, but she is staying with a sick friend in Bath.”

“Mrs. Clitheroe is a formidable lady,” said Ram Gopal. “I am sure her friend will soon feel better.”

Edwin sniggered.

“Either that, or she’ll die to escape her,” he said. “I love my aunt but she is too robust for some people. A definite product of her time.”

“What is the criterion for searching, my lord?” asked Mrs. Hymes.

“I specified the age, for one,” said Edwin. “The advertisement ran, ‘An Anglo-Indian gentleman of comfortable means seeks a lady to become his wife who is prepared to bear him children within the marriage. She should not be over six-and-twenty years old, and should be willing to live in the country. Indian cuisine will be a part of the household. Must be well-read, and capable of holding a household, including entertaining. Should have a bright and lively intellect and pleasing personality.’ I think that covers it.  Anyone trying to tell me that she is only thirty-two, or who will engage to change my reliance on Indian cuisine, and who wants to fob off her own children in place of bearing children for me is out. I would not necessarily turn down a young widow, or someone with siblings in need of a home.  If unsure, read it out to me.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Mrs. Hymes. “That seems clear enough.”

Ram Gopal gave each of them a dozen letters to start with, to be placed in the pile of ‘sounds good,’ the pile of ‘go through again,’ and the ceremonial chamber pot for the disposal of the totally unsuitable.