as a fresh wound. "I've heard that she murdered her husband," he mentioned.
Holyoake grunted. "Aye, it's what they do say."
"Was Wade a local man?"
" 'E had a big house betwixt Wyckerley an' Tavis-tock, m'lord."
"How did he make his living?"
"I couldn't say as to the particulars o' that, except he had mining interests here and about, and I b'lieve he had other businesses as well. In general, 'e were a businessman, Him and the mayor might've had some dealings together."
Sebastian thought that over. "He must have been a good deal older than his wife when he married her."
"Hmm, ha," said William, signifying assent.
"Must've been quite a scandal when he was murdered."
William said nothing.
"How was he killed?"
" 'E were bludgeoned to death wi' a poker."
Sebastian swore softly, staring at Holyoake in shock.
"Aye, you could say that. It were a right panjam-ble,m'lord."
"Did she confess? Was there no question that she did it?"
"Oh, there were a question. And she never confessed." He was silent for a while, then added with obvious reluctance, "They'd've hung 'er if it hadn't of been fer the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
Holyoake had a habit of pressing his lips together in a tight smile when he was thinking hard, or undecided, or uncomfortable. At the moment, he appeared to be all three. "They was only married about a week, as I recollect. He had a daughter who was Mrs. Wade's school chum. Lydia, her name is; she bides in Wycker-ley now wi' her aunt, a widow lady named Mrs. Armstrong."
Bloody hell, thought Sebastian. Not only had he hired a convicted murderess, but her victim's family lived here in the village. Why hadn't Vanstone told him?
"At the trial," Holyoake resumed slowly, each word sounding more unwilling than the last, "it come out that Mr. Wade had certain, ah, peculiarities."
"Peculiarities?"
"Propensities. Of an unnatural nature. He weren't altogether normal-like in 'is sexual partialities, you might say. That and her being only eighteen is what made 'em let 'er off wi' penal servitude instead o' hanging. Or so it were said. And that's all I do know o't, m'lord."
And that's all he would say. At the river bridge, he turned his sturdy cob around and began to plod back toward the village. Sebastian had planned to ride to Tavistock this afternoon, to see what amusements the town had to offer. Instead he stayed home, and spent the rest of the day thinking about his new housekeeper.
5
The London Season began in earnest during the second week after Easter. By now, all of Sebastian's social acquaintance would be swept up in the annual storm of galas, court balls, concerts, and horse races. When he was in England, he never missed it, not because he found the frivolous whirl especially enjoyable anymore, but because there was nothing else to do.
This year, surprising himself, he didn't go. I'll take the train up on Wednesday, he would plan; and then, when the departure date came and went, I'll go on Friday. But something always came up, or he was too preoccupied, or he'd forget to tell Preest to pack. April turned into May, and without ever making a deliberate choice, Sebastian remained in the country.
For what? Sheep-dyeing and barley-sowing, orchard-pruning and field-manuring. No one who knew him would have credited it, but the process of farming was actually beginning to interest him. He wanted to observe the full cycle at least one time, witness causes and effects—planting and harvesting— maybe test his own resources against nature's. That was as close as he could come to defining the quality of his fascination with the lush Devonshire countryside in this spring of 1856. The novelty of landowner-ship probably played a part, as well as the completely new experience of being the one to whom others looked for guidance, looked, in fact, for their very livelihoods. He could have been sitting on his bench in the House of Lords, looking at pictures in the Royal Academy, gambling at Strouds's,
Holyoake grunted. "Aye, it's what they do say."
"Was Wade a local man?"
" 'E had a big house betwixt Wyckerley an' Tavis-tock, m'lord."
"How did he make his living?"
"I couldn't say as to the particulars o' that, except he had mining interests here and about, and I b'lieve he had other businesses as well. In general, 'e were a businessman, Him and the mayor might've had some dealings together."
Sebastian thought that over. "He must have been a good deal older than his wife when he married her."
"Hmm, ha," said William, signifying assent.
"Must've been quite a scandal when he was murdered."
William said nothing.
"How was he killed?"
" 'E were bludgeoned to death wi' a poker."
Sebastian swore softly, staring at Holyoake in shock.
"Aye, you could say that. It were a right panjam-ble,m'lord."
"Did she confess? Was there no question that she did it?"
"Oh, there were a question. And she never confessed." He was silent for a while, then added with obvious reluctance, "They'd've hung 'er if it hadn't of been fer the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
Holyoake had a habit of pressing his lips together in a tight smile when he was thinking hard, or undecided, or uncomfortable. At the moment, he appeared to be all three. "They was only married about a week, as I recollect. He had a daughter who was Mrs. Wade's school chum. Lydia, her name is; she bides in Wycker-ley now wi' her aunt, a widow lady named Mrs. Armstrong."
Bloody hell, thought Sebastian. Not only had he hired a convicted murderess, but her victim's family lived here in the village. Why hadn't Vanstone told him?
"At the trial," Holyoake resumed slowly, each word sounding more unwilling than the last, "it come out that Mr. Wade had certain, ah, peculiarities."
"Peculiarities?"
"Propensities. Of an unnatural nature. He weren't altogether normal-like in 'is sexual partialities, you might say. That and her being only eighteen is what made 'em let 'er off wi' penal servitude instead o' hanging. Or so it were said. And that's all I do know o't, m'lord."
And that's all he would say. At the river bridge, he turned his sturdy cob around and began to plod back toward the village. Sebastian had planned to ride to Tavistock this afternoon, to see what amusements the town had to offer. Instead he stayed home, and spent the rest of the day thinking about his new housekeeper.
5
The London Season began in earnest during the second week after Easter. By now, all of Sebastian's social acquaintance would be swept up in the annual storm of galas, court balls, concerts, and horse races. When he was in England, he never missed it, not because he found the frivolous whirl especially enjoyable anymore, but because there was nothing else to do.
This year, surprising himself, he didn't go. I'll take the train up on Wednesday, he would plan; and then, when the departure date came and went, I'll go on Friday. But something always came up, or he was too preoccupied, or he'd forget to tell Preest to pack. April turned into May, and without ever making a deliberate choice, Sebastian remained in the country.
For what? Sheep-dyeing and barley-sowing, orchard-pruning and field-manuring. No one who knew him would have credited it, but the process of farming was actually beginning to interest him. He wanted to observe the full cycle at least one time, witness causes and effects—planting and harvesting— maybe test his own resources against nature's. That was as close as he could come to defining the quality of his fascination with the lush Devonshire countryside in this spring of 1856. The novelty of landowner-ship probably played a part, as well as the completely new experience of being the one to whom others looked for guidance, looked, in fact, for their very livelihoods. He could have been sitting on his bench in the House of Lords, looking at pictures in the Royal Academy, gambling at Strouds's,
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