The Master of Phoenix Hall (2 page)

“Handled?” I interrupted. “Why do you use the past tense?”

“I am afraid I have some very bad news for you, Miss Todd.”

It had all happened so quickly. I could still not adjust to the fact that my Aunt Lucille had died, leaving me a house in Cornwall and a small annual income. I sat in Mr. Patterson's office now, waiting for him to give me all the details and feeling rather guilty because I was not at the dress shop, putting stitches in a gown for someone else. Nan had insisted that I buy a new outfit for myself, and I was wearing a dress of sky blue linen and a cape of silver-gray rabbit fur, with muff to match. The new clothes felt as strange as the new position.

“You look marvelous!” Nan had cried as she inspected me earlier this morning. “Turn around. Let me see how the skirt hangs—yes, just right. You look elegant, Miss Angel, just elegant. Now things will really happen. Just you wait and see!”

I looked at myself in the full length mirror. The clothes were nice, flattering, but they seemed too bright after my drab gray frocks. I felt as though I were in masquerade as I attached a small bunch of violets on my lapel. The severe, not unpretty face that stared back at me seemed like the face of a stranger. The finely arched brows were delicate, and the dark brown eyes looked too sad and too old. The nose was turned up just a little and the firm pink lips were too large. My only really good feature was the lustrous brown hair, rich with silvery highlights.

“You'll have a fine house all your own,” Nan continued, dancing around the room like a child, “and many new dresses and dozens of men coming to call. It'll be a whole new life—for both of us!”

“Both of us?” I inquired.

“A fine lady needs a maid, Miss Angel, and surely you don't think I would let you go all the way to Cornwall all by yourself! Not for a moment!”

She flung her thin arms about me and I was overcome with relief. The thought of moving to a strange part of the country alone had terrified me, but with Nan along it would be much easier. She was an impetuous, impulsive child, but I loved her.

“What about your gentlemen friends?” I asked teasingly.

“Oh,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “they'll get along. And I hear they grow them big and tall and mean in Cornwall.”

“Nan, you're incorrigible.”

“But it's such fun, Miss Angel!”

I smiled as she began to make plans. First she would go and tell Mrs. Clemmons a few choice facts about herself and her ancestry, and then she would bid each of her young gentlemen friends goodbye. Then she would buy a new dress for herself, something very gay, and go tell Madame Inez how wrong she had been when she had predicted a disaster.

“She must have looked at the wrong cards,” Nan concluded. “I have never known her to be wrong before.”

“Do stop babbling, Nan,” I said.

I thought about Aunt Lucille as I rode to Mr. Patterson's office. I felt guilty at not being properly sad and downcast, but Aunt Lucille had always been a stranger to me. My mother's sister, she had not taken to my father, so there had been some strain. She had come down to London for my mother's funeral, and after it was over she patted my hand, saying a few words of comfort. I remembered an oddly dressed old woman with flaming red hair that was obviously dyed. As I was her only living relative, she had written a few letters to me during the past few years, but the handwriting was so erratic that I could hardly read them. We had exchanged Christmas cards, and once she sent me a box of herbs that she had grown in her garden.

I knew that her husband, my Uncle Fred, had been a gardener at some large estate in Cornwall, and when the master of the estate died he left the Dower House to his faithful servant. I vaguely remembered my mother talking about a law suit. The young heir of the estate had not felt his father had been justified in leaving the Dower House to a servant, and he had tried to get it back, but the Court stood behind the will. My aunt and uncle moved into the house, and after Uncle Fred's death, Aunt Lucille continued to live there alone. Now I, in turn, had inherited it.

The coach moved rapidly over the cobbles, knocking me about, and I clung to the side of the vehicle, peering out at the London streets. I saw run-down old redstone houses with shabby lace curtains at the windows and swarms of dirty children playing on the broad stone steps. A bent old woman hobbled down the block with a basket of rags, and a man was collecting knives and scissors to sharpen on his revolving stone. There were many flowers, even the most humble dwelling having its small patch or a few pots with blooms.

London was loud and congested and dirty, but now that I would soon be leaving it I felt a curious sadness. I would miss the gardens, and I would miss the skating pond in winter and Hyde Park in spring. There was so much color and excitement and history, and I would be trading it all for the bleak coast of Cornwall.

Now, as I sat waiting for Mr. Patterson in his office, I promised myself that I would treat Nan to an outing at Covent Garden before leaving. We would hazard the traffic and confusion and go see an operetta. Nan would enjoy it, and Heaven knew I would miss the theater once I was in Cornwall. Buying the cheapest seats and climbing to the top of the balcony had been something I had cherished over the years.

Mr. Patterson came in, carrying a heavy stack of papers. He wore a frayed but well cut gray suit and there was a blue handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket. He wore spectacles also, and these gave him a milder look. In the small room his great size was even more evident, and he seemed to lumber about like a caged lion, talking about deeds and other legal documents in very professional terms. I could not begin to follow half of what he was saying, but I sat with what I hoped was an intelligent look on my face and nodded my head when it seemed appropriate to do so.

“You have no desire to sell?” he asked finally.

“Why—no. Not just yet, anyway. I am anxious to see the house.”

“The Master of Phoenix Hall would pay handsomely.”

“He wants Dower House back?”

“He seems determined to have it.”

“I seem to remember something about a law suit he brought against my uncle,” I said, hoping Mr. Patterson would tell me something more about it.

“Yes, that was many years ago, and there was much bad blood. He claimed your uncle used trickery to get Bradford Mellory to leave Dower House to him, and there was quite a squabble in court. But the will was airtight, and Dower House was legally your uncle's, as now it is yours.”

“What is the place like?” I asked.

“It is small, two floors and a basement, strongly constructed—the finest old stone and oak. There is an herb garden and many trees. One drawback—and you may not like this—the old deserted quarries are right behind the house, fifty yards or so. Could be dangerous if a person wasn't careful.”

“Where is it in relation to Phoenix Hall?”

“Half a mile or so, easy walking distance. Not so close you'll feel ill at ease. Your aunt managed to ignore the people at the Hall completely, seldom even saw them on the grounds. You won't be alone, will you, Miss Todd?”

“I shall have a maid. Why do you ask?”

“Well—it's a rugged country. All sorts of unrest.”

“Is there—danger?”

“Not really. I didn't mean to alarm you. There's been a lot of smuggling in the county, some highwaymen have been seen on the roads of late. It's a poor county. Phoenix Hall is the only rich estate in the area, and it's gone down since they mined out all the granite.”

“My aunt lived alone,” I remarked.

“Your aunt was a salty old woman, Miss Todd. She kept a pistol and she knew how to use it. And she was loved by the people of the county. I have mentioned the herb garden? She made poultices and medicines for the neighborhood people and was something of a midwife. People came to her when they had aches and pains, and usually she cured them. No one would have harmed her. As her relative, you'll be in good standing before you even arrive.”

He gave me some papers to sign and I signed where he pointed. I held the quill between nervous fingers and the ink splattered. He blotted it with a piece of felt and waved the deed in front of the window to dry it. He tied up a stack of papers with a ribbon and asked me if I wanted a box at the bank. He agreed to handle all my legal matters for me, and I felt they were in good hands.

“There is quite a bit of money,” he said. “Most of it invested. I will send you the statements. You'll get a modest sum four times a year. That's the interest. The rest will still be at the bank, making more.” He paused, obviously wanting to ask me a question.

“Yes?” I said, prompting him.

“Have you any knowledge of your aunt's source of income?”

“None whatsoever.”

“None of my affair really. I know she was paid well by the people, and she had a brisk business in herbs. I wouldn't have thought it would pay so well—but perhaps she had another source of income we didn't know about.” He grinned. “Perhaps a little distillery. I wouldn't have put it past her.”

I shifted the muff in my lap. “As you know, my aunt was a complete stranger to me.”

He nodded. “You would have liked her, Miss Todd.”

I stood up to go. Jacob Patterson rubbed his hands together, relieved to have another successful transaction behind him. I liked the man enormously, and I was sure that he was both honest and efficient.

“You are a lucky young woman, Miss Todd.”

“I know. This has all happened so quickly, I can hardly believe it even now. It is like a dream—a place of my own, an income, after years of making do. I feel like a child under a Christmas tree with a gorgeously wrapped gold and silver box just for me.”

Jacob Patterson chuckled. He glanced at his watch.

“I must not keep you,” I said, “I know you are busy. But, before I go, could you tell me a little about Phoenix Hall and its masters? I am very curious.”

“I've never been inside the place,” he said, “but I have seen it from outside. It is a vast, rambling place a huge old pile of stone without any real claim to beauty. It's a mixture of styles, originally built during the reign of Elizabeth and one of the places she visited. It was partially destroyed during Cromwell, much of it burned. It was reconstructed during the next century. Thus it got its new name, rising like the legendary bird out of the ashes. Reborn, so to speak. The Mellorys inherited it during the seventeen hundreds. It has belonged to them ever since. There was coal once, but the supply soon ran out and the old mines were boarded up. There was a large deposit of granite discovered and Bradford Mellory's father quarried it. Bradford Mellory kept the quarries running, even when they had ceased to be profitable to Phoenix Hall, so that his people would have employment.”

“He must have been a kind man,” I remarked.

“Bradford Mellory was an easygoing, genteel old fellow, it would seem, well loved by all the people in the neighborhood. Phoenix Hall was open to everyone, and he gave grand, lavish parties for the people, the poor folks as well as the gentry. When he died there was much grieving. The new master is not at all like his father. Quite the opposite.”

I very much wanted to hear about the man who was determined to have Dower House back. Jacob Patterson described him to me as a young man just turned thirty, something of a rake and despised by the people. He had been thrown out of Oxford for gambling, and there had been a lot of trouble with the young women of the neighborhood. The first thing he did when his father died was to close the granite quarries, thus putting all the people who had worked there out of work. There had been threats of a riot among the peasants and the troops had been called in. Violence did not break out, but there was still a smoldering resentment for the present Master of Phoenix Hall.

“He must be very unpleasant,” I remarked.

“Arrogant, spoiled, tyrannical,” Jacob Patterson said.

“Who else lives in Phoenix Hall?”

“His younger brother, Paul. The lad was injured as a child and he is a semi-invalid, interested mostly in his music and books.”

“How old is Paul Mellory?” I asked.

“Twenty-three or four, I would guess,” he replied. “I have never seen him, but I understand that he is a gentle boy, much like his father in nature and at odds with his brother. There is a sister, too, Laurel. She would be about your age, a pale, pretty lass who tries to make up for her brother's harshness by her charity. The people love her, and the love is well earned. She was a friend of your aunt's. You will no doubt meet Miss Laurel.”

“I shall look forward to it,” I told him.

I left the office with my head reeling, trying to sort out all the facts I had learned. It was one of those rare, sun-spangled days that can turn London into the most beautiful city in the world, and I decided to walk for a while. The air was fresh and sparkling with a clear blue haze. The sun made silver sunbursts on the windows of shops and glittered on the cobbles. I lingered at a book stall, turning over the old second-hand volumes, finding it hard to realize that I could buy all the books I wanted now. I wandered on, pausing to watch a group of swarthy, muscular men in front of a music store moving a large piano down a flight of stairs while its owner, a small Italian music teacher, made violent gestures and cried encouragement.

The sights and sounds and smells of London were fascinating, and I would soon be leaving them. A vendor stood behind his cart, selling hot bacon rolls, soft strips of bread wrapped around bacon and mustard. He swirled a piece of brown paper around one and gave it to me, and I bit into the delicious treat, feeling like a child on holiday. Small children were gathered around a Punch and Judy show at the next corner, crying out in excitement as the colorful puppets danced on the tiny stage. I stood beside a little girl in a blue dress and watched the show with almost as much pleasure as the children.