Nell by Elizabeth Bailey Page A

fetched today from the farm—the housekeeper instead produced newly made oatcakes, which had come off the griddle that very morning.
    ‘And there’s a seed cake I made only yesterday, which will come up fresh again. I’ve only to warm it on the griddle with the ham.’
    Nell had accepted the offer with grace, although she was by no means as hungry as the meal warranted. For no consideration would she risk offending the housekeeper, whose friendliness and good will were doing a great deal to reconcile her to the difficult future shefaced. When she at last sat down—in an adjacent room that evidently served as a pantry for Mrs Whyte and the butler—Nell was gratified that the housekeeper chose to join her and partake of a cup of coffee from the pot she had made.
    ‘I’ve much to do, but it’ll keep, and we can enjoy a little cose.’
    ‘That will be most agreeable,’ said Nell warmly.
    The mob cap rippled as the housekeeper nodded with vehemence. ‘Nothing more uncomfortable than to come among strangers, that’s what I say. And worse, to find yourself in a place such as this, where you couldn’t be blamed if you was to tease yourself with thoughts of ghosts and such.’
    Nell laughed. ‘Very true. It is certainly intimidating, but I hope I am not such a ninny as to suppose that it is truly haunted.’
    A little to her surprise, Mrs Whyte appeared to be more troubled than amused. The plumpness in her countenance became creased and her mild eyes took on a look of distress. Nell laid down her fork.
    ‘Why, what is it, Mrs Whyte?’
    The woman’s voice was tense. ‘It isn’t ghosts, Miss Faraday. But I won’t say as there wouldn’t be naught to frighten you. An unhappy household is this, and if you ask me, there’s those as would keep it so.’
    Those? Who in the world could she mean? At a loss for an answer, Nell hesitated a moment too long. It might be a cue. On the other hand, it ill behoved the governess to be indulging her curiosity in a gossip with the housekeeper. But perhaps it had been a slip of the tongue, after all, for Mrs Whyte’s manner changed as she nodded towards Nell’s plate.
    ‘Don’t let it go cold, Miss Faraday.’
    Resuming her meal, Nell sought for an innocuous way to re-introduce a discussion of the household. She might with propriety ask about her charge—without touching upon the hateful fears expressed by her employer. Digging into the butter, she carefully kept her tone light as she coated a second oatcake.
    ‘Is Henrietta a pretty child?’
    Mrs Whyte’s face softened visibly. ‘She’s a little beauty. Was so, from the cradle.’ A reminiscent look crept into her eyes. ‘ Hair as black as a raven, and eyes like a velvet night. That’s what his lordship said, first time he saw her. Grew up as near a mirror image of the mistress as makes no odds. Though I’d swear her eyes are darker than her ladyship’s.’
    Into Nell’s mind leaped a memory. That picture she had seen. The question was impulsive, out before she could think twice.
    ‘Is that a portrait of Lady Jarrow in the parlour? If Henrietta resembles her so very much, she must indeed be beautiful.’
    ‘Yes, poor soul.’
    Was that for Henrietta, or her mother? Nell’s thirst for knowledge got the better of her. ‘How did she die, Mrs Whyte?’
    Clouds gathered in the woman’s face. ‘Terrible it was. I’m not saying it wasn’t a mercy, considering everything, but the manner of it was hideous. My poor mistress was murdered.’

Chapter Three
    D espite the warmth exuding from the kitchen next door, a sensation of clammy cold swept through Nell’s veins. How could Lady Jarrow’s death have been a mercy? And a murder! A vision of Lord Jarrow’s haunted countenance, suffering etched into its hollows, swam into her mind. Her heart went out to him.
    ‘Heavens, what a tragedy!’
    Mrs Whyte nodded. ‘That it was. And all for the curse of a miserable footpad!’
    Nell jumped. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘Shot