The face of a stranger Read online

  She arrived at the magnificent front entrance with its Doric columns and portico. The driver had no time to hand her down because she had grown unaccustomed to such courtesies and scrambled to the ground herself while he was still tying the reins. With a frown he unloaded her box and at the same moment a footman opened the door and held it for her to pass through. Another footman carried in the box and disappeared somewhere upstairs with it.

  Fabia Shelburne was in the withdrawing room where Hester was shown. It was a room of considerable beauty, and at this height of the year, with the French windows open onto the garden and the scent of roses drifting on a warm breeze, the soft green of the rolling parkland beyond, the marble-surrounded fireplace seemed unnecessary, and the paintings keyholes to another and unnecessary world.

  Lady Fabia did not rise, but smiled as Hester was shown in. "Welcome to Shelburne Hall, Miss Latterly. I hope your journey was not too fatiguing. Why my dear, you seem very blown about! I am afraid it is very windy beyond the garden. I trust it has not distressed you. When you havecomposed yourself and taken off your traveling clothes, perhaps you would care to join us for afternoon tea? Cook is particularly adept at making crumpets." She smiled, a cool, well-practiced gesture. "I expect you are hungry, and it will be an excellent opportunity for us to become acquainted with each other. Lady Callandra will be down, no doubt, and my daughter-in-law, Lady Shelburne. I do not believe you have met?"

  "No, Lady Fabia, but it is a pleasure I look forward to." She had observed Fabia's deep violet gown, less somber than black but still frequently associated with mourning. Apart from that Callandra had told her of Joscelin Grey's death, although not in detail. "May I express my deepest sympathy for the loss of your son. I have a little understanding of how you feel."

  Fabia's eyebrows rose. "Have you!" she said with disbelief.

  Hester was stung. Did this woman imagine she was the only person who had been bereaved? How self-absorbed grief could be.

  "Yes," she replied perfectly levelly. "I lost my eldest brother in the Crimea, and a few months ago my father and mother within three weeks of each other."

  "Oh—" For once Fabia was at a loss for words. She had supposed Hester's sober dress merely a traveling convenience. Her own mourning consumed her to the exclusion of anyone else's. "I am sorry."

  Hester smiled; when she truly meant it it had great warmth.

  "Thank you," she accepted. "Now if you permit I will accept your excellent idea and change into something suitable before joining you for tea. You are quite right; the very thought of crumpets makes me realize I am very hungry."

  The bedroom they had given her was in the west wing, where Callandra had had a bedroom and sitting room of her own since she had moved out of the nursery. She and her elder brothers had grown up at Shelburne Hall. She had left it to marry thirty years ago, but still visited frequently, and in her widowhood had been extended the courtesy of retaining the accommodation and the hospitality that went with it.

  Hester's room was large and a little somber, being hung with muted tapestries on one entire wall and papered in a shade that was undecided between green and gray. The only relief was a delightful painting of two dogs, framed in gold leaf which caught the light. The windows faced westward, and on so fine a day the evening sky was a glory between the great beech trees close to the house, and beyond was a view of an immaculately set-out walled herb garden with fruit trees carefully lined against it. On the far side the heavy boughs of the orchard hid the parkland beyond.

  There was hot water ready in a large blue-and-white china jug, and a matching basin beside it, with fresh towels, and she wasted no time in taking off her heavy, dusty skirts, washing her face and neck, and then putting the basin on the floor and easing her hot, aching feet into it.

  She was thus employed, indulging in the pure physical pleasure of it, when there was a knock on the door.

  "Who is it?" she said in alarm. She was wearing only a camisole and pantaloons and was at a considerable disadvantage. And since she already had water and towels she was not expecting a maid.

  "Callandra," came the reply.

  "Oh—" Perhaps it was foolish to try to impress Callandra Daviot with something she could not maintain. "Come in!"

  Callandra opened the door and stood with a smile of delight in her face.

  "My dear Hester! How truly pleased I am to see you. You look as if you have not changed in the slightest—at the core at least." She closed the door behind her and came in, sitting down on one of the upholstered bedroom chairs. She was not and never had been a beautiful woman; she was too broad in the hip, too long in the nose, and

  her eyes were not exactly the same color. But there was humor and intelligence in her face, and a remarkable strength of will. Hester had never known anyone she had liked better, and the mere sight of her was enough to lift the spirits and fill the heart with confidence.

  "Perhaps not." She wriggled her toes in the now cool water. The sensation was delicious. "But a great deal has happened: my circumstances have altered."

  "So you wrote to me. I am extremely sorry about your parents—please know that I feel for you deeply."

  Hester did not want to talk of it; the pain was still very sharp. Imogen had written and told her of her father's death, although not a great deal of the circumstances, except that he had been shot in what might have been an accident with a pair of dueling pistols he kept, or that he might have surprised an intruder, although since it had happened in the late afternoon it was unlikely, and the police had implied but not insisted that suicide was probable. In consideration to the family, the verdict had been left open. Suicide was not only a crime against the law but a sin against the Church which would exclude him from being buried in hallowed ground and be a burden of shame the family would carry indefinitely.

  Nothing appeared to have been taken, and no robber was ever apprehended. The police did not pursue the case.

  Within a week another letter had arrived, actually posted two weeks later, to say that her mother had died also. No one had said that it was of heartbreak, but such words were not needed.

  "Thank you," Hester acknowledged with a small smile.

  Callandra looked at her for a moment, then was sensitive enough to see the hurt in her and understand that probing would only injure further, discussion was no longer any part of the healing. Instead she changed the subject to the practical.

  "What are you considering doing now? For heaven's sake don't rush into a marriage!"

  Hester was a trifle surprised at such unorthodox advice, but she replied with self-deprecatory frankness.

  "I have no opportunity to do such a thing. I am nearly thirty, of an uncompromising disposition, too tall, and have no money and no connections. Any man wishing to marry me would be highly suspect as to his motives or his judgment."

  "The world is not short of men with either shortcoming," Callandra replied with an answering smile. "As you yourself have frequently written me. The army at least abounds with men whose motives you suspect and whose judgment you abhor."

  Hester pulled a face. "ToucM," she conceded. "But all the same they have enough wits where their personal interest is concerned." Her memory flickered briefly to an army surgeon in the hospital. She saw again his weary face, his sudden smile, and the beauty of his hands as he worked. One dreadful morning during the siege she had accompanied him to the redan. She could smell the gunpowder and the corpses and feel the bitter cold again as if it were only a moment ago. The closeness had been so intense it had made up for everything else—and then the sick feeling in her stomach when he had spoken for the first time of his wife. She should have known—she should have thought of it—but she had not.

  "I should have to be either beautiful or unusually helpless, or preferably both, in order to have them flocking to my door. And as you know, I am neither.''

  Callandra looked at her closely. "Do I detect a note of self-pity, Hester?"

  Hester felt the color hot up her che
eks, betraying her so no answer was necessary.

  "You will have to learn to conquer that," Callandra observed, settling herself a little deeper in the chair. Her voice was quite gentle; there was no criticism in it, simply a statement of fact. "Too many women waste their lives grieving because they do not have something other people tell them they should want. Nearly all married women will

  tell you it is a blessed state, and you are to be pitied for not being in it. That is arrant nonsense. Whether you are happy or not depends to some degree upon outward circumstances, but mostly it depends how you choose to look at things yourself, whether you measure what you have or what you have not."

  Hester frowned, uncertain as to how much she understood, or believed, what Callandra was saying.

  Callandra was a trifle impatient. She jerked forward, frowning. "My dear girl, do you really imagine every woman with a smile on her face is really happy? No person of a healthy mentality desires to be pitied, and the simplest way to avoid it is to keep your troubles to yourself and wear a complacent expression. Most of the world will then assume that you are as self-satisfied as you seem. Before you pity yourself, take a great deal closer look at others, and then decide with whom you would, or could, change places, and what sacrifice of your nature you would be prepared to make in order to do so. Knowing you as I do, I think precious little."

  Hester absorbed this thought in silence, turning it over in her mind. Absently she pulled her feet out of the basin at last and began to dry them on the towel.

  Callandra stood up. "You will join us in the withdrawing room for tea? It is usually very good as I remember; there is nothing wrong with your appetite. Then later we shall discuss what possibilities there are for you to exercise your talents. There is so much to be done; great reforms arc long overdue in all manner of things, and your experience and your emotion should not go to waste."

  "Thank you." Hester suddenly felt much better. Her feet were refreshed and clean, she was extremely hungry, and although the future was a mist with no form to it as yet, it had in half an hour grown from gray to a new brightness. "I most certainly shall."

  Callandra looked at Hester's hair. "I shall send you my maid. Her name is Effie, and she is better than my appearance would lead you to believe." And with that she

  went cheerfully out of the door, humming to herself in a rich contralto voice, and Hester could hear her rather firm tread along the landing.

  * * * * *

  Afternoon tea was taken by the ladies alone. Rosamond appeared from the boudoir, a sitting room especially for female members of the household, where she had been writing letters. Fabia presided, although of course there was the parlor maid to pass the cups and the sandwiches of cucumber, hothouse grown, and later the crumpets and cakes.

  The conversation was extremely civilized to the point of being almost meaningless for any exchange of opinion or emotion. They spoke of fashion, what color and what line flattered whom, what might be the season's special feature, would it be a lower waist, or perhaps a greater use of lace, or indeed more or different buttons? Would hats be larger or smaller? Was it good taste to wear green, and did it really become anyone; was it not inclined to make one sallow? A good complexion was so important!

  What soap was best for retaining the blush of youth? Were Dr. So-and-so's pills really helpful for female complaints? Mrs. Wellings had it that they were little less than miraculous! But then Mrs. Wellings was much given to exaggeration. She would do anything short of standing on her head in order to attract attention.

  Frequently Hester caught Callandra's eyes, and had to look away in case she should giggle and betray an unseemly and very discourteous levity. She might be taken for mocking her hostess, which would be unforgivable— and true.

  * * * * *

  Dinner was a quite different affair. Effie turned out to be a very agreeable country girl with a cloud of naturally wavy auburn hair many a mistress would have swapped her dowry for and a quick and garrulous tongue. She had hardly been in the room five minutes, whisking through clothes, pinning here, flouncing there, rearranging everything with a skill that left Hester breathless, before she had recounted the amazing news that the police had been at the hall, about the poor major's death up in London, twice now. They had sent two men, one a very grim creature, with a dark visage and manner grand enough to frighten the children, who had spoken with the mistress and taken tea in the withdrawing room as if he thought himself quite the gentleman.

  The other, however, was as charming as you could wish, and so terribly elegant—although what a clergyman's son was doing in such an occupation no one could imagine! Such a personable young man should have done something decent, like taking the cloth himself, or tutoring boys of good family, or any other respectable calling.

  “But there you are!'' she said, seizing the hairbrush and beginning on Hester's hair with determination. "Some of the nicest people do the oddest things, I always say. But Cook took a proper fancy to him. Oh dear!" She looked at the back of Hester's head critically. "You really shouldn't wear your hair like that, ma'am; if you don't mind me saying." She brushed swiftly, piled, stuck pins and looked again. "There now—very fine hair you have, when it's done right. You should have a word with your maid at home, miss—she's not doing right by you—if you'll excuse me saying so. I hope that gives satisfaction?"

  "Oh indeed!" Hester assured her with amazement. "You are quite excellent."

  Effie colored with pleasure. "Lady Callandra says I talk too much," she essayed modestly.

  Hester smiled. "Definitely," she agreed. "So do I. Thank you for your help—please tell Lady Callandra I am very grateful."

  “Yes ma'am.'' And with a half-curtsy Effie grabbed her pincushion and flew out of the door, forgetting to close it behind her, and Hester heard her feet along the passage.

  She really looked very striking; the rather severe style she had worn for convenience since embarking on her

  nursing career had been dramatically softened and filled out. Her gown had been masterfully adapted to be less modest and considerably fuller over a borrowed petticoat, unknown to its owner, and thus height was turned from a disadvantage into a considerable asset. Now that it was time she swept down the main staircase feeling very pleased with herself indeed.

  Both Lovel and Menard Grey were at home for the evening, and she was introduced to them in the withdrawing room before going in to the dining room and being seated at the long, highly polished table, which was set for six but could easily have accommodated twelve. There were two joins in it where additional leaves could be inserted so it might have sat twenty-four.

  Hester's eye swept over it quickly and noticed the crisp linen napkins, all embroidered with the family crest, the gleaming silver similarly adorned, the cruet sets, the crystal goblets reflecting the myriad lights of the chandelier, a tower of glass like a miniature iceberg alight. There were flowers from the conservatory and from the garden, skillfully arranged in three flat vases up the center of the table, and the whole glittered and gleamed like a display of art.

  This time the conversation was centered on the estate, and matters of more political interest. Apparently Lovel had been in the nearest market town all day discussing some matter of land, and Menard had been to one of the tenant farms regarding the sale of a breeding ram, and of course the beginning of harvest.

  The meal was served efficiently by the footmen and parlor maid and no one paid them the slightest attention.

  They were halfway through the remove, a roast saddle of mutton, when Menard, a handsome man in his early thirties, finally addressed Hester directly. He had similar dark brown hair to his elder brother, and a ruddy complexion from much time spent in the open. He rode to hounds with great pleasure, and considerable daring, and shot pheasant in season. He smiled from enjoyment, but seldom from perception of wit.

  "How agreeable of you to come and visit Aunt Callan-dra, Miss Latterly. I hope you will be able to stay with us for a while?"

  "T
hank you, Mr. Grey," she said graciously. "That is very kind of you. It is a quite beautiful place, and I am sure I shall enjoy myself.''

  “Have you known Aunt Callandra long?'' He was making polite conversation and she knew precisely the pattern it would take.

  "Some five or six years. She has given me excellent advice from time to time."

  Lady Fabia frowned. The pairing of Callandra and good advice was obviously foreign to her. "Indeed?" she murmured disbelievingly. "With regard to what, pray?"

  "What I should do with my time and abilities," Hester replied.

  Rosamond looked puzzled. "Do?" she said quietly. "I don't think I understand." She looked at Lovel, then at her mother-in-law. Her fair face and remarkable brown eyes were full of interest and confusion.

  "It is necessary that I provide for myself, Lady Shel-burne," Hester explained with a smile. Suddenly Callan-dra's words about happiness came back to her with a force of meaning.

  "I'm sorry," Rosamond murmured, and looked down at her plate, obviously feeling she had said something indelicate.

  "Not at all," Hester assured her quickly. "I have already had some truly inspiring experiences, and hope to have more." She was about to add that it is a marvelous feeling to be of use, then realized how cruel it would be, and swallowed the words somewhat awkwardly over a mouthful of mutton and sauce.

  "Inspiring?" Lovel frowned. "Are you a religious, Miss Latterly?"

  Callandra coughed profusely into her napkin; apparently she had swallowed something awry. Fabia passed her a glass of water. Hester averted her eyes.

  "No, Lord Shelburne," she said with as much composure as she could. "I have been nursing in the Crimea."

  There was a stunned silence all around, not even the clink of silver on porcelain.

  "My brother-in-law, Major Joscelin Grey, served in the Crimea,'' Rosamond said into the void. Her voice was soft and sad. "He died shortly after he returned home."