Friend at Court: A Ruth Bowen Regency Mystery

Friend

at

Court

A Ruth Bowen Regency Mystery

Brenda Dow

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© Copyright 2013 Brenda Dow.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4669-7695-5 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-7694-8 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-7693-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903293

Trafford rev. 02/23/2013

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Close Friends

Chapter One

Plan of Norwich 1783

Norfolk, England

1817

Chapter 1

Ruth Bowen tugged at the chain dangling beside the ornately carved door of the imposing Georgian house which dwarfed the surrounding pastoral cottages. A muffled bell reverberated within. She smiled reassuringly at the young man beside her, whose long face suggested he had no liking for their errand.

Wait in the chaise if you would rather, Wilfred. Prepare yourself for the ordeal ahead of you!

He frowned. How can you call meeting your parents an ordeal?

Ruth’s eyes twinkled, though her smile was rueful. Her stepson had such a serious nature, which was slow to appreciate her teasing sense of humour. It had led them into clashes of temperament more than once.

Besides, I would not offer Alice such a slight, he continued loftily.

You used to play together, didn’t you? This will be a short visit if all is well.

They waited, listening to the soothing sounds emanating from a dovecote somewhere in the vicinity and a hen celebrating a timely delivery. There were no sounds from within the house.

Friend Grimble claims we’ll not get past the door. Should we go round to the back?

The tradesman’s entrance? Certainly not! She was about to give a sharp rap on the brass knocker, which hung as standby to the ineffective bell, when the door opened.

A manservant surveyed the pair with a condescending look, identifying them at once as Quakers. His eyes slid past them to take in the black chaise standing beyond the gate.

Wishing that she had a few more inches, Ruth took comfort that, although her clothing might be plain and dark, it was of the first style of elegance. Ruth firmly stepped past him into the hallway of the house. Mrs. Varley, please! I am Mrs. Bowen visiting from London and request a few moments of her time.

Comprehension flickered in the manservant’s eyes, which were quickly veiled by an expression of professional indifference. I will enquire if Mrs. Varley is receiving. He admitted the younger male visitor and closed the door before mounting the staircase, which led straight up disappearing into rather ill-lit upper regions.

By contrast, the hallway was expensively furnished with well-polished furniture and moulded and gilded ceiling ornamentation.

Her nose twitched at a strange aroma: not the beeswax, which had been used freely on the console table and the side chairs; not a candle; and surely not a fireplace in the middle of summer. Her attention was drawn to the luxuriance of Italian marble tiling on the floor by the hissed comment of her companion.

I do not care for the ostentation. The expression of disapproval on Wilfred’s fresh, rosy countenance increased as he stared at a painting of sporting nymphs in a bucolic setting.

It offends thy Quaker soul. Take off your hat, Wilfred! Nothing is to be gained by offending these people.

Obligingly, he pulled off his broad-brimmed black hat.

Soft-footed, the serving man descended the stairs again. Mrs. Varley is indisposed. She is not receiving.

Ruth accepted this calmly. I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps her husband would favour me with a few moments.

The manservant cast his eyes down. I deeply regret. My master has recently passed away.

Ruth paused. There was no hatchment over the door. Nothing in the exterior aspect of the house had indicated mourning. I had not heard. Much as I would like to pass on my condolences to Mrs. Varley, it is unnecessary for me to intrude on her. My request to see her was a courtesy. My real purpose in visiting this house is to speak to Alice Scorby.

Scorby?

Yes! Alice Scorby, who is a member of your household staff! Calm clear light blue eyes regarded the manservant who displayed certain unease. Surely that can be arranged. Her father, who is a most valued employee of mine in London, asked me to call on her. He is worried about her. Perhaps she could be released from her duties for a short while to talk to me. I look forward to writing to him to say that all is well with her. There was an anxious little rise in inflection in the last part of this speech.

She is no longer employed in this house. The servant gave a slight bow and made to reopen the front door for them.

For a moment, there was silence. This was unexpected. Ruth’s voice sharpened. When did this—parting of the ways occur?

Several weeks ago!

Is she, then, employed somewhere else?

Not to my knowledge.

Dismayed, Ruth asked, Is she somewhere in Norwich? Surely, you must know where she can be found.

He fell silent.

Under the circumstances, it is imperative I speak to Mrs. Varley.

The manservant spread his hands in a mute indication that he could do nothing.

Manfully, Wilfred pushed himself forward. How can that be? If Miss Scorby—understandably—found her surroundings foreign to her and was unhappy with her employment here, she should have been sent back to her home. He looked at Mrs. Bowen as if for approval. I told you the Scorbys should rather have placed Alice with Friends. There is an ungodly feel about this house.

Ruth frowned at him warningly.

Gad! That must be Uncle Fred’s ghost lurking in the hallways.

Startled, both visitors turned quickly to see a fashionable young man lounging in a doorway leading from the hallway. He was not above four and twenty, and his dress betrayed the desire to present himself as a man-about-town, even in such a provincial city as Norwich. His shirt points were extremely high, and the extraordinary broad peaked shoulders of his coat were accentuated by the narrowness of its wasp waist. The narrow cigar he brandished in one hand added a rakish touch at this early hour of the morning. Its odour filled the air.

The younger man offered no apology for his aspersion against the household. I did not see you, sir. My name is Wilfred Bowen. We are seeking Miss Alice Scorby, who was employed in this house.

Young Alice! Yes, I heard.

Why was she allowed to leave?

The man shrugged.

Undergoing his roving scrutiny, Ruth set her rounded little chin in a challenging tilt. Her voice took on an edge. Alice Scorby is ill-equipped to be on her own. I find it unconscionable that any fifteen-year-old, let alone this particular girl who is very deaf, was allowed to leave a house responsible for her well-being without adequate protection.

Taken aback by her sharp tones, the man considered his reply, a faint smile twisting his mouth. Who’s to say she is without protectors? No doubt, she is in safekeeping.

I find your insinuation offensive.

Perhaps my insinuation went above your head.

Ruth’s eyes met his directly. I am not sure I understand you, sir. She took a breath. Is it possible a letter has gone astray? Surely, Mrs. Varley must have considered it her duty to write to the girl’s father if some difficulty arose.

My aunt—I’m Gerald Varley, late a lieutenant in the Norfolk Regiment, by the way—has been too ill to keep up with her correspondence. One really can’t expect her to follow the meanderings of a servant who was let go.

Let go? For what reason? Ruth’s figure was rigid. She was unimpressed by Gerald Varley. I know the girl well. She may neither hear well—nor is she the clever sort—but she is scrupulously honest and a willing worker. I cannot believe any behaviour on her part that would warrant such cavalier treatment.

He shrugged indifferently. I was away from home. I presume my aunt had sufficient reasons. Her dealings with the household staff are hardly my concern, though I did hear there was some question of a diamond necklace.

A piece of jewellery?

It was found in her room.

So?

It belonged to my aunt.

The manservant was watching them intently.

There will be an explanation. Perhaps she was cleaning it. She would certainly know how to do that. Her father works in jewellery. Let me speak with Mrs. Varley! I will avoid causing her distress if she is not at her best.

My aunt is just too ill to receive.

She hesitated. It was against her nature to give anyone the lie direct, but she doubted that Mrs. Varley was completely incapacitated. If so, why had the manservant not refused her at the outset? She dimly saw a dark female figure standing at the top of stairs, listening. Not the mistress of the house, she thought, but whomever the manservant had consulted.

Come, Mama! urged Wilfred. Let’s seek out the Friends. We’ll get more help from them than within this cold house.

Gerald Varley raised his eyebrows in exaggerated astonishment. "Mama! What a well-grown sprig! I would have thought any son of such a young lady should rather be in short coats."

Wilfred looked at him witheringly. You are offensive, sir, more so as you must know I may not quarrel with thee.

"I notice thou dost not scruple to abuse me to my face," the other man sneered mockingly.

Ruth pulled at the young man’s arm. "We will leave now, Wilfred. I doubt Mr. Varley meant any grievous insult. She turned to Varley. Wilfred Bowen is my stepson and is equally concerned in my errand. Please convey to Mrs. Varley my wishes for a full recovery from her indisposition, but be assured this matter does not rest here."

As they left, Wilfred was still resentful. At seventeen, he was at an age to take offence at any challenge to his maturity. He muttered about how insufferable the other had been.

Don’t dwell upon it. Perhaps it was a dismal attempt at gallantry.

They climbed into the chaise, crowding in beside the driver, fortunately a fellow of spare build. He addressed Ruth with interest. Thee weren’t but a moment. Didst thee learn anything?

"Nothing!

He nodded in grim satisfaction. I told thee. Bill Scorby sent word begging me to ask after his daughter. I was given short shrift there myself.

I did not realise. You have known Bill Scorby a long time?

Since we were apprentices in London! Aye! We and thy husband, God rest his good soul.

Ruth nodded with a slight smile. Will you please, Mr. Grimble, enquire at the meeting house if anyone has seen or heard of Alice Scorby in the last six months. Although she is not one of the Society of Friends, she might have had the sense to go to them.

He set the horse in motion, adding pessimistically that he doubted she had, or they would have written to Bill Scorby in London. Nay, but he’s a foolish man to let a deaf girl go so far from home, he added. He’s never been the same since he married that Baptist gigglehead.

Ruth did not answer. Bill Scorby’s wife was long dead, and her employee had suffered much from his marriage, having been disowned by the Quakers when he married out. She sighed quietly. In revenge, Bill Scorby, had learned the skills of jewellery repair, unacceptable to the plain folk, but had come close to bankruptcy. In compassion, her husband, Samuel, dead these three years now, had taken him on as a counterman at Bowen & Sons, Watchmakers.

She should have joined us, like you did, Mrs. Bowen.

And sacrificed family like I did! Ruth did not put her thoughts into words. Instead, she said, I must call upon the good offices of the Norwich Friends to help us find Alice. There are a few places that might know of her. The hospital! Do you know of any employment registry? Maybe she would go to one of the churches for help, the workhouse, even. She would be a poor hand at finding work for herself.

She might be in prison, suggested Grimble.

Surely not! Ruth had not mentioned the accusation of theft against the girl. He must have learnt of it when he made a previous enquiry. We would have learnt that at the Varley house. They did not say a complaint was laid against her. In fact, they denied all knowledge of where she might be.

Grimble shook his head. If she had no means of support, the lass might have got in trouble with the law—for begging, belike. She could be put to work in the bridewell or taken to that lockup on St. Giles.

Maybe she just set off to walk home. interposed Wilfred. I would if I’d not enough means for a coach ticket.

More than a hundred miles? Ruth’s heart chilled at the thought: a vulnerable young girl—well looking for all that she lacked both adequate hearing and good understanding, and incapable of fending for herself—would be at grave risk. Even if she had been given wages on being turned off, those meagre moneys had not taken her back to London. All of England might be searched in vain for Alice if she had wandered away.

I’ll take thee to thy home now, thee and the lad.

"How good of thee, Mr. Grimble! We called on your help so early this morning and much to your inconvenience, but I promised Bill Scorby I would make enquiries the instant I got to Norwich."

Grimble glanced at her, amusement lurking in his normally dour face. Thee wouldn’t be loath to see thy old home, then?

It is not my old home. We used to live over the chemist’s shop. My mother inherited the present house from her uncle. I have never lived in it.

How many years has it been since thee saw thy folks?

Too many! Ruth said no more. Friend Grimble saw through her too keenly, she thought. She had hoped her father would have been waiting to meet her off the London mail coach, but he had not been there. Was that why she had called on Mr. Grimble? Not just her promise to Bill Scorby.

They’ll be wondering whether thee came at all. Thou wilt be late—very late. The coach got in two hours past.

Crumbling sections of the old walls marked the ancient boundaries of the city as the chaise passed the prison and continued down St. Giles and round by the old guildhall through the heart of Norwich. As they skirted the busy marketplace, Ruth prevailed upon Mr. Grimble to pause whilst she bought a bushel basket of plums as a peace offering. Her mother was partial to that fruit and prided herself on her preserving skills. The Carstairs family never went short of sweets in the winter, she remembered.

The basket was duly secured to the back of the chaise. The streets were now thronged with traffic, and the chaise was forced to a tortoise crawl. As they came round to enter the road put down over the old filled-in castle ditch, an official signed the chaise to a halt. Crowds lined the street, craning necks as bystanders awaited some spectacle.

Why are we stopped, Friend Grimble? enquired Wilfred. Is it some special day?

Grimble wrinkled his brow and then gave an exasperated exclamation. Assizes! It must be that. Amongst the evils of the day is the timing, which has thrown us in the way of so-called justice. He cracked his whip sharply, confusing his horse which had no room to go ahead in the crowded street.

Ruth smiled inwardly. Grimble had had his confrontations with the law. She watched with interest the well-remembered whifflers, colourfully clad, sword-wielding men who led the way for all Norwich processions. They made playful feints at the banks of spectators to keep them in line as all the pageantry and colour of the procession celebrating Norwich Assize Week came into view. It marked the entry of the circuit judges into the city. There followed a mace bearer, two well-mounted men whom Ruth divined must be the sheriffs of both city and county, and carriages bearing various other officials. Then followed the carriages of the circuit judges which had borne them from London on their round of the various cities on their particular circuit, their duty being to try those cases deemed too serious for the magistrate’s court or the quarter sessions. Identifiable by their lilac lapelled robes, two of the judges had abandoned their carriages to walk with the city dignitaries in solemn procession to the heart of the city. The colour and panoply of all of the majesty of the law passed in front of the little group of Quakers, so close that they could almost touch the robes and wigs of the nearest of the officials.

Impatient at the delay, Grimble handed the reins to Wilfred and clambered out with all the air of a man who has better things to do than watch bureaucratic aggrandisement. Ruth, having no such aversion, moved over to enjoy better the spectacle.

The baggage attached to the back of the chaise did not meet with Grimble’s complete approval. A fresh breeze had blown open part of the cover over the fruit, and a cluster of wasps had already found the brimming basket. Grimble undid the strap securing the basket in order to rearrange the cover, supporting it with one arm. He waggled his head to discourage a wasp buzzing round his ear. Brushing at it with an impatient hand, he then put his wrist down on another wasp. He jumped back at the painful sting. The basket tipped sideways a fraction. A shower of plums rolled down upon the road out amongst the rows of moving dignitaries. Squashed pulp smeared the road beneath the trampling feet of the parading men. A plum stone squirted into the chaise horse’s foreleg, causing it to sidle in alarm. Several urchins rushed out to take advantage of the unexpected bounty.

Their Honours looked none too pleased with this assault on their dignity, but for the most part, they ignored the whole incident as beneath their notice. However, one judge, whose tall vigorous figure could not be masked by his flowing robes, turned his head sharply in surprise, a look of disgust upon his face. His eyes flicked over Grimble and thence to the occupants of the chaise, where Wilfred was coping with the restive horse.

Ruth clapped her hand to her mouth in a dismay belied by the laughter in her eyes. The man’s eyes were ice cold under straight brows in a square, pitiless face. Their eyes met with the effect of sparks from a struck flint. The intensity of the moment caught at her breath. She lifted her chin haughtily, angered by the expression on his face. Then he looked away, staring straight in front of him as he moved through the debris, neither stepping amiss nor varying by a hair’s breadth his measured tread.

Ruth shivered.

Grimble came round to apologise. I lost most of thy plums, Mrs. Bowen.

Never mind the plums! Who was that? God grant I never stand before his bench! Her gaze followed the broad-shouldered back stalking away from them.

A Quaker hater! muttered Grimble. No stranger to me! Garrett his name is. He has set his teeth against us—he and his father before him—ay, a great-grandfather of his’n had one of my family transported. He added as a pious afterthought, God forgive ’im.

But surely those days of persecution are over.

He grinned sourly. We don’t cause near as much trouble nowadays. Getting old, I reckon. We haven’t interrupted a good ess-tab-lished church service in years! But you should see the distrain they levy on me ’stead of tithes. Costs me a lot more that way! He brushed away his complaints with a change of mood. Away with this procession of crows and parrots! We’ll get thee home soon, Mrs. Bowen.

But what of this man? Is he as bad as his forbears?

Grimble gave a short laugh. Ha! Worse than that, he’s an eccentric. To my mind, you should know what a judge might be doing. Thee don’t know which way that fellow will jump. Thee cannot trust an eccentric judge.

Ruth looked after the man speculatively. She could still see the top of his judicial wig, surmounting by half a head those around him.

Take me to my parents, Mr. Grimble.

The last carriage bearing the Mayor of Norwich passed. As soon as motion was possible, the chaise skirted Norwich castle, poised as it was on the flattened crest of a huge mound and pulled into one of the streets to the northeast. They drew up beside a tall terraced house, which fronted right on the street.

The prodigal daughter returns, cried Ruth.

Wilfred swivelled to look at her, frowning. Don’t say that! That is to diminish the Friends.

Her liveliness had prompted her into saying the wrong thing again, Ruth sadly acknowledged to herself. Wilfred, don’t be so quick to doubt me! I am a Quaker! You should know my joking ways. Do not be showing that glum face to my mother, lest she think I am mother to a bear. She tweaked his collar soundly, and a reluctant grin appeared on his face again as the door of the house flew open.

Chapter 2

A young woman bounced out of the front door. Her white figured muslin dress did not hamper her exuberant progress in the slightest. Wilfred sprang down to assist his stepmother’s descent. Ruth’s arms were open to embrace her sister.

Cissie! I scarce recognised you with your hair cut short. And how you’ve grown! You are taller than I, you imp. No, I can’t call you that any more, can I, now that you are quite grown up? She disengaged herself. But don’t hang on to me so. You must meet Wilfred Bowen.

Suddenly proper, Cecilia extended a hand to the young man, but with a mischievous eye. Mr. Bowen! I will call you Wilfred because, after all, you are my nephew. I take no account of step relations, you know. A little frown crossed her forehead. But you must not call me Aunt.

The young man coloured, but made a quick recovery by introducing Friend Grimble. This worthy paid his regards and unloaded the baggage. Ruth barely had time to ask him to continue to enlist the aid of the Society of Friends in finding Alice Scorby before he climbed back into the chaise and left, refusing all offers to enter.

Mrs. Carstairs stood in the main drawing room, waiting to receive them. A high-bosomed woman, she exuded an aura of remote dignity. There was a moment of awkwardness as Ruth paused on the threshold. Then without a word, she opened her arms to embrace her daughter convulsively, tears pouring down her face.

I feel hugged to pieces, Ruth gasped and said, I was overwhelmed to get your letter inviting me—no, bidding me home. She noticed with a pang the grey that streaked her mother’s once dark brown hair where it escaped from under her lace cap. Otherwise, she found little change in her.

The older lady wiped her eyes and released Ruth. It was time. Old quarrels bear bitter fruit. I wish you had come earlier.

And Papa? Does he feel the same?

Your father is with me in this, her mother responded firmly.

Ruth hesitated. Is he—well?

He ages well enough.

Ruth did not press the matter. The letter had spoken of her father’s intention to sell the business. Made conscious of the passage of time, she had resolved to return for a visit. Her father was several years older than her mother, but this was perhaps not the moment to delve into the state of his health.

Mrs. Carstairs stepped back to look at her critically. Ten years since I’ve seen you—but you are still my elegant Ruth. Good bones count, as I have always maintained. That dark grey brings out your vivid colouring and is quite well cut—but are you still in mourning, my dear?

Ruth smiled softly and said, No, Mother.

Oh! Of course! For a moment, I had forgotten. Her eyes lit on the young man standing just inside the door. So this is one of your stepsons!

This is Wilfred. I left Michael in London. He is old enough now to care for the business for a few weeks.

Quite a responsibility, I am sure. Mrs. Carstairs addressed her youthful visitor directly. Master Wilfred Bowen! It is quite right that Mrs. Bowen should bring at least one of her stepsons home with her, though her elder stepson would have been a more appropriate escort on a long arduous journey.

Faced with these words, delivered in the majestic manner, Wilfred glanced rather wildly at his stepmother and was encouraged by her smile and the ghost of a wink. He made his bow and nervously thrust the plums into Mrs. Carstairs’s hands.

She looked down at the half-filled pannier in her hands in astonishment. Ruth took them from her and placed them on a side table.

Then the history of the fate of half of the plums had to be related, and by the time Mrs. Carstairs was wiping more tears from her eyes, this time tears of laughter, Wilfred was looking more comfortable in his surroundings.

In due time, Mrs. Carstairs, anxious to have her daughter to herself, made an imperative suggestion that Cecilia show her new cousin—she also jibbed at the word nephew—the garden.

As the young people obligingly disappeared, Mrs. Carstairs shed much of her alarming formality. A pleasant enough fellow, your Wilfred! He is going to be a fine figure of a man—tall and well-built already. He wants confidence. On the other hand, his manner is reserved but pleasing and he doesn’t—

Thee you and thou you? A mischievous smile crinkled Ruth’s eyes. Not to you.

Do you?

Rarely! When I wedded Samuel, he made an effort to change and encouraged his sons to change their speech to make me feel at home. He did not want all adaptation to be on my side. You know, if I had not accepted his faith, he would have been cast out of the Society of Friends. Usually, Wilfred will tailor his speech to whomsoever he is addressing. Overlook it when he slips!

And look at you! A woman who has been head of a London business for three years! Oh, my dearest! You should have come back to us sooner. She seated herself in a