Twenty minutes later, she stood in the heart of Huntingly village, feeling more conspicuous than she ever had in her life. Huntingly was a traditional Somerset village with a central square, a busy market and thatched cottages scattered throughout. On any other day, she might have paused to admire the medieval-fronted blacksmith’s or allowed herself a pastry from the deliciously scented bakery, but the morning was advancing and she had no desire for Lord Huntingly to discover her a second time.
Swiftly, she made her way to the local schoolroom, a simple stone building with a bell atop its slate roof. Then she pushed back the hood of her pelisse and smoothed her hair before knocking on the thick oak door. Seconds later, it was pulled open with some force and a cross-looking gentleman peered out.
‘Yes, what is it?’ he asked testily, before realising a young lady of quality stood on his doorstep. ‘Oh! Begging your pardon, miss, I thought it was one of the local gut—children playing games. How may I help you?’
Josephine pushed her glasses up her nose and channelled all her sisters’ natural authority at once.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled politely, trying to put the cross schoolmaster at ease. ‘I’m here to pay my respects to an old friend– Miss Eliza Pellham? I was saddened to learn of her passing last year, and wondered if she had any family remaining in the village?’
He stared briefly before appearing to collect himself and force a nauseating smile. ‘A friend of Eliza’s?’ he queried. ‘I mean, Miss Pellham’s? But, of course! You could try her mother? Poor soul was the only Pellham to survive the dreadful scourge of last year. She’s still on Rose Hill, last cottage on the right before the grazing field, you can’t miss it,’ he added in a fawning tone that Josephine was certain he reserved for all his school patrons.
Yet he’d given her exactly what she needed so taking her leave, she hurried through the busy streets, her thoughts whirling. Quite why Williams had failed to mention a surviving mother was a puzzle, and she could not help but think it odd that she’d to discover it for herself. ‘Yet, I’m certain Jane herself would be proud,’ she murmured, ‘for I’m sure her heroines did not have half such a mystery to solve!’
It was in this determined state of mind that Josephine made her way through the heart of the village towards Rose Hill. Smiling at a child in the street, she followed its gentle incline until she reached the last cottage on the right, covered in wild, rambling roses. She trod forward tentatively and knocked, wondering if she’d come this far only to find her quarry had moved on.
‘Hello?’ she called through the murky gap. ‘Is anyone at home? I’m looking for Mrs Pellham?’
She waited, listening to the sound of her own breath, and wondering if she was allowing the mystery to unnerve her. Then a scuffle of slow footsteps reached through the darkness. Josephine took a deep breath, feeling her chest tighten as the footsteps trod closer, certain this was a meeting that would prove or disprove everything– it had to.
‘Yes?’ came a soft, querulous voice, as the door opened to reveal a stooped, elderly woman, wearing a faded woollen dress and clumsily-knotted headscarf.
‘Have I the pleasure of addressing Miss Eliza Pellham’s mother?’ Josephine asked doubtfully, eyeing the gnarled stick in her free hand.
There was a moment’s hesitation before the elderly woman answered with clear effort. ‘Yes, my dear, though Eliza’s been gone this past year, as have my son and mother too, God bless their souls… It’s just me now.’
Josephine gazed into her wizened face, lined by time and heartache, and realised the older woman wasn’t looking at her, but straight through her– that she was without sight.
‘I am so sorry for your losses, Mrs Pellham,’ Josephine replied, suddenly guilt-ridden, ‘and for disturbing you at this time.’ She sucked in a breath, silently berating herself for trespassing on the poor woman’s grief when she’d clearly had enough of her own challenges. ‘My name is Josephine. I was a friend of Eliza’s and wished only to pay my respects, but I can come again another time.’ She gathered up her skirts and made ready to leave.
‘A friend of Eliza’s, you say?’ Mrs Pellham exclaimed in a tone of genuine wonder. ‘But then you must come in, my dear… please… come in…’
Reluctantly, Josephine followed Mrs Pellham’s stooped figure into the sparsely furnished old cottage, feeling even worse than before. She could guess why Eliza’s mother might have been spared the wave of typhoid that had claimed the rest of the family: it was unlikely she’d been able to help nurse any of them.
‘Tea, dear?’ the elderly woman asked, already filling a small black kettle with water and setting it on a small stove.
It was a routine she clearly knew well, and, murmuring her thanks, Josephine took a seat in a rickety chair as the woman collected two cups from a distinctly warped sideboard and washed out a porcelain teapot.
‘Of course, you must know my dear mother had care for Eliza and her brother when they were young, as she did for me, but they were the light of my life all the same,’ she sighed, before mustering a brighter tone. ‘Not that you came here to hear that, my dear. Tell me, how did you and Eliza know one another? And do forgive my asking your age?’
‘Of course.’ Josephine replied gently. ‘I’m two-and-twenty, and I attended Ebcott School,’ she added to add substance to her claim. ‘Eliza and I crossed paths locally a few times.’
‘Oh, you’re an Ebcott schoolgirl!’ Mrs Pellham replied, her face lighting up. ‘Well, that explains it, then! And I am honoured you have come to see me. Eliza was always so headstrong, flying everywhere without heeding any of my advice, rarely told me anything.’ She smiled.
‘She was certainly… independent,’ Josephine echoed cautiously.
‘That she was, dear. I remember the day she was born, my mother called her amoorland pixie, with hair the colour of wild berries and skin as pale as the moon. Her brother was just the same, of course. They had such a special bond…’
‘Did he look up to her? As a sister?’ Josephine ventured, her chest beginning to thump at Mrs Pellham’s mention of her son.
‘Look up? I suppose so, though there were only minutes between them, mind, and they were as thick as thieves from day one. Always chasing and playing together, even when they befriended others… I expect Eliza probably told you all this already…’
The older woman turned her attention to the teapot as Josephine’s thoughts whirled. If Pellham and his sister were twins, Huntingly must have spent time with Eliza as well. She must have known exactly what prompted the duel, and his injuries too. If only she were alive to tell the tale.
‘Indeed, Eliza talked of her brother very often,’ Josephine replied cautiously, ‘and their happy moments growing up together.’
‘Oh, there were so many!’ Mrs Pellham replied. ‘They ran wild! And when one of them befriended another, they fell out a bit, too, as close brothers and sisters are wont to do, I suppose.’
Josephine stared. Williams had mentioned Pellham and Huntingly’s friendship– but never that it might have irked Pellham’s twin sister. Perhaps he hadn’t known himself.
