The Dead Queen's Garden by Nicola Slade Page A

It’s none of my business, she told herself firmly and picked up her well-worn copy of
Persuasion
which she knew almost by heart. After her earlier life, always on edge lest Will Glover’s schemes should come undone, followed by her desperate journey across India during the Mutiny, it was still a novelty and a treat to find herself at leisure to enjoy herself.
    ‘Gran?’ Even Anne Elliot’s travails in Lyme Regis for once failed to keep her interest. She ignored Lady Frampton’s disgruntled muttering as she pursued her thoughts. ‘Who would inherit Brambrook Abbey and the title if – if anything happened to young Oz?’
    ‘Now what maggot have you took into your ’ead, you silly wench?’ The old lady cocked an eye at her companion and sighed. ‘Oh, all right, let me see. I believe the house and money would go to some cousin or other, lives in Yorkshire and has never been near the place. But ’e’s the son of some great-aunt of ’is Lordship, so there’s no more Granvilles to inherit the title, and it would die out.’
    She roused herself. ‘You ain’t got some bee in your bonnet about that poor old servant’s death the other day, ’ave you? Because you can just stop that at once, you ’ear me, gal? That Maria Dunster was killed by person or persons unknown, the constable said so and so did the coroner, so don’t you get all fanciful and start looking for something to connect it to this poor young lady’s death. I won’t ’ave it, Char, you mark my words.’
    Tucked up in bed later that night, Charlotte nonetheless found herself reflecting on the christening party.
Stop this at once
, she told herself firmly, I cannot see any point in this conjecture, there was certainly no sinister stranger from Yorkshire in attendance. This is merely the product of an over-active imagination, no doubt brought on by drinking sherry at Barnard’s insistence. Tomorrow will see an end to such fancies.
    She frowned and nibbled at her thumbnail. Tomorrow would also bring a reluctant visit to Winchester. Somehow or other, Charlotte had found herself appointed to take the brougham into town in the early afternoon and rescue the bereaved Miss Armstrong, along with her bags and baggage and convey her to themanor to spend Christmas with her new friend, Lily. Poor soul, thought Charlotte, as she snuggled down under the covers. It won’t be much of a Christmas for her but I suppose she can retire to her room if it all becomes too merry for, she yawned, I can’t see Lily cutting down on the festivities. This is her first winter as lady of the manor and she has plans afoot, plans that are intended to dazzle the neighbours, even though young Algy’s extreme youth will no doubt curtail several of his mother’s more extravagant ideas.
     
    Next morning Charlotte shivered awake to a sparkling frost on her windows and, for a moment, yearned for the warmth of her far-off childhood climate. With due consideration towards the solemnity of her task, she dressed again in her brown woollen dress and fished out her most sober bonnet ready for the journey. Her plan to visit Elaine that morning had been thwarted by a message from Knightley Hall advising her that Mrs Knightley was not up to visitors that day but hoped to see Charlotte on Christmas morning. Sighing, she busied herself about her usual tasks, wrote letters, did some mending, interviewed the cook, and listened once more to Lady Frampton’s views on child-rearing as it should be applied to young Algy. At last she bade her farewell and set out at a brisk pace across the village and up the short drive to the manor and invited herself to luncheon.
    Lily preceded her into the dining-room, waving to the footman who placed a chair for Charlotte. ‘What a colour you have, dear Char,’ she remarked, with a slight note of envy in her voice. ‘You surely have not walked up from Rowan Lodge?’ She turned to cast a glance in the mirror and pouted at her own rather pale complexion and