The Sordid Tale of Eliza Chanticleer, Widow

The Sordid Tale of Countess Eliza Chanticleer, Widow Prologue, Stratfordshire 1823: In life it rarely needs explaining if a man, once widowed re-marries. Everyone knows that man cannot live alone, the bible itself proclaims it in the very beginning. Besides, without a woman to guide him, a man might smoke his cigars in the livingroom rather than on the terrace and then just think how his drapes might smell?! No. Don’t think on it. It is too tragic a thing with which to taint the mind. If widowers did not remarry there would be houses everywhere with stinking drapes and dusty carpets – because you know his servants would take advantage if there weren’t a lady of the house to direct them. A man requires a woman to look after him and if his first one manages to end up dead it is his prerogative to replace her as quickly as possible. Such is nature. A wife’s funeral is in fact an excellent place for a landed gentleman to begin his search for a potential new mate. But to explain the case of a WIDOW who remarries is harder. After all, a widow is generally a wrinkled old prune who no man would want anyway. That and the fact that women (being frail and tender-hearted creatures) are generally so in love with their poor dead husbands that they cannot bear to remarry. We must consider that there are also those difficult to mention handful of bold and brazen women who tend not to remarry because a widow is generally granted all of her husband’s property and therefore is mistress of her own life for the very first time since being born. If the woman has no male heirs or close relations she may enjoy this unique position in society indefinitely. Remarrying would only rob her of the ability to own property. Such poor unnatural creatures like these must be pitied for their inability to enjoy the comforting censure of a man’s constant guidance and direction. The contradiction to the rule (as rules must have their contradictions) is the pretty young widow who has inherited an incredibly large fortune. Women like this are hounded day and night until they consent to remarry. Generally, because they realize that if they DO finally consent, they’ll only be bothered by one man instead of a legion. Such is this tale of the dreadfully unfortunate Widow Eliza Chanticleer who’s hand in marriage was lost in a card game by her father, the Earl of Huntsburry. He was a gentleman of title and wealth, though degenerate gambler and alcoholic. His best friend, an equally unpleasant and aged fellow of title and money was the privileged winner of the unique prize. Being married at seventeen to an eccentric and balding bachelor of forty seven with peculiar penchants and strange reputation is a cruel fate for anyone. Occasionally though, shocking fates are short-lived, and our Miss Eliza, was a widow by twenty and an orphan a year before that. Both her husband and her father died in strange and unfortunate accidents. No one was silly enough to outright suggest murder. Although, tongues do enjoy a good wag when two heartily disliked members of society become suddenly deceased. When the same odd young woman is the sole beneficiary of both incidents, well a little bit of rumor is only natural. One might pity her all of her tragic losses if anyone actually believed they were tragic. But when one is suddenly freed of a drunken and domineering father and a husband who garnered general dislike wherever he went, and gains two fortunes in the bargain, one is not pitied. Such a person might even be suspected. Or pursued by notorious rakes and fortune hunting gentleman who care more for money than the danger of risking their tender necks in what might be the pursuit of a black widow. The question remained though, did she or didn’t she? Chapter 1: May 1823 – 3 months post Widowhood A beautiful gabled manse existed at the end of the path of nearly black shale that wound between shade trees, rose gardens, a greenhouse and an orangery. It’s windows were all hung with black curtains to honor it’s dead master, but impudent morning glories in bright blues and pinks grew in profusion all along it’s gray and dour walls. The flowers seemed to mock the odor of death that the windows of the house were intent upon conveying. A woman with long dark hair loose to her waist opened one of the second floor windows, accidentally allowing the swath of black crepe tucked into the window frame to escape and blow across the lawn like a ghost fleeing the morning light. She picked the nearest little rose tinged blossom and inhaled it, watching it wither and die instantly as all morning glories do when picked, before letting it fall from her slender fingers to the ground below. Fleeting beauty. The gardener looked up from his work to stare at his new mistress. He didn’t much care for her. She was a strange and high spirited creature, but she was better than the old master. The master had been awful and unkind, nothing like his fair and democratic father had been. Most of the servants had been glad when the man broke his neck riding one of his wife’s dowry horses. He’d deserved it too. Beaten the poor stallion continuously with the quirt until the beast could bear it no longer. It had thrown him off its back and into a rocky ravine and that had been that. Well no matter. It was a fitting death for nobleman to expire in a hunting accident. Much better that than the gout and all the indignity that such a ludicrous death as often befell noblemen entailed. The mistress had been scarcely more than a child when she’d come to live at the manse, and now she seemed more of one than ever before. Her new freedom seemed to have her slightly unhinged. Grief could do that too a person. Only, every servant in the house new the Mistress was not experiencing anything close to grief. Not even for the fact that she had no heir – no male to take over this manor with proper authority when he came of age. Unthinkable that she didn’t regret even that! He stabbed a bit more at the tulip bulbs he was digging up. Their season was over, and their stale yellowish corpses had to make way for new flowers to be planted. He’d have to tuck them away quickly in a few boxes of dried leaves and burlap. They’d lie in their tombs until the ground thawed next spring when they’d be given the chance to sprout up in a profusion of color. Tulip bulbs were valuable and just this side of edible. One had to be careful to lock them up before they were eaten by animals or stolen by a waif to trade for bread. The old master had not cared if the grounds had flowers or not, but the Mistress adored them. It was better to please your Master or Mistress than not. The stable hand was just at the edge of his eye line, bringing the horses through the meadow portion of the garden. The yellow dandelions were always so hard to find and pull up after the horses ate the faces off of all the flowers. Damn fool had just made his afternoon task harder. Strange fellow the stablemaster. He hadn’t liked the man even before he’d taken to letting the horses eat the weeds. The young man had come with the Mistress as a bit of present from her father to watch over the horses. The girl’s father bred fine racing horses as a gentleman’s hobby while he’d been living. He’d been fair short of cash when he’d married the girl off and had to dower her by means of his prime breeding stock and the use of knowledgeable young man who cared for them. The young man himself never mixed with the other servants, he had a college education and quite the specialized trade. Must of thought himself above mixing with riff raff who couldn’t even write their own names. Other than necessary questions or answers, he spoke only to the mistress. He kept to the barn, solitary as bird of prey. Too good for a flock he supposed. The man even resembled a hawk of some sort…long dark brown hair that framed his face like wings, casting shadows in across his high cheek bones, darkening his glinting golden eyes. Handsome iffin you like that sort…which the gardener did but would rather die than admit it. The sudden presence of a familiar sound startled the gardener from the strange and evitable trajectory that thoughts of the stable hand always led to. The wheels of a carriage were crunching their way across the stoney path of thin slavers of shale that crumbled further to into dust every time the road was used. The carriage had polished wooden wheels of a light buttery wood. Their shine grew dingier as they progressed due to the thick layer of shale dust cleaning to the damp wheels. Eliza could see them from the window. It’d be another suitor, it would be too bad for him. She absolutely HATED them. Everyone was the same. Each one was sure she must be terrified in this great big house alone and be desperate for someone to share its darkness with. More than that, she must need someone to help her manage the money. They were all terribly concerned about what a mess the delicate mind of a woman was going to make of the finances. How could that great progression of numbers in the books be anything but a long dance of indecipherable nonsense to her? What would her tiny brain know about the value of corn futures? Or how to properly invest in a golf course? Pity for them that she was actually quite good at math. Even if she wasn’t, she’d never consent to another husband. The Countess knew what a husband meant. The scar on her thigh burned in reminder. She shut the window and headed toward the garish red carpeted staircase that would lead her to the drawing room. Her unwanted guest would be admitted there, and would no doubt and be expecting his hostess to receive him. How long would he dither about before inquiring if she would like to wed? Or better yet, ask if she was a murderess? Such a fine word. Murderess. Like a sleeker, sexier word for murderer. A word which just sounded like you’d tripped over your own tongue. Murderess on the either hand sounded beautiful, alluring, and delicate somehow. Eliza paused at the foot of the stairs. She could hear her doorman asking him to sit, a maid was offering to fetch tea. Tea. Cream and sugar. She grinned. Oh dear. Another of her ideas. Her father had never been able to get them out of her and they just kept popping up, insisting on being tried. She wanted to be wicked, and now there was no one around to stop them. “And whose company might I have the pleasure of?” Eliza asked as she stepped across the threshold of the room she most hated in the world. Everything from the ram’s head firmly mounted on the wall, to the reddish brown carpet like dried blood on the floor. It all reeked with reminders of the day she’d been told she was going to be mistress of this house. Her father had brought her to dine at the abode of his gambling compatriot. Over a light luncheon of liver sandwiches and honeysuckle salad it had casually been mentioned that her hand in marriage had been wagered recently and lost in a single turn of the cards. Nothing she could do about it. A father had a right to dispose of his daughter however he wished. It had been a really terrible afternoon. “Sorry, I know I am uninvited, but I am new in town, and thought I should introduce myself.” The young man stammered, rising to his feet as she entered. He was tall, handsome and fair haired with well-shaped green eyes that seemed very intent upon the carpet. Ah. Poor lamb was shy. His clothes were all black. Hmm. Odd detail, it made the two of them match. In the reflection of the mirror over the fireplace they looked more like a painting of a couple. His black linen perfectly matched her crepe de chine, while her hair hung in curtains to her waist. “Introduce yourself?” She gestured to the bile green couch. “Sit, please. Tell me what personage of importance has come to introduce himself to me. I must understand how such a thing could not be avoided.” He coughed. “No importance Ma’am. I am the town’s new clergyman, and it is my duty introduce myself to all the poor and the widows, although perhaps, in your case…” She raised an eyebrow. Was he not there to court her? Maybe she’d misjudged the situation. “I merit a visit? For merely being a widow? Though definitely not poor?” She asked. “Sorrow, I doubt cares much about the level of wealth a person has.” He said, shaking his head to refuse the scone her maidservant was offering him from a silver tray. Rosemary and cheddar. The man was a fool. Who would refuse such a delight? “Thankfully sorrow has yet to visit me on this occasion.” She replied lightly. Her manservant set down the tea service and poured two cups for them. Elia nodded just barely for him to take the first cup. “May I offer you sugar?” She asked, removing the gold filigreed lid from the green and white china bowl. “Or do you prefer arsenic?” She inquired blithely. The clergyman swallowed hard and smoothed his longish pale hair repeatedly. “Ma’am?” He asked. She laughed. “Oh, poor boy. I’m only joking. You’ve obviously heard the rumors about me and I couldn’t resist. The tea is safe.” She took a sip from his cup and then handed it back her fingers brushing his accidentally. Ack well now he blushing. He was a clergyman, and probably no older than she was. She’d made it worse by offending his modesty in intimately sipping from his cup in effort to prove she wasn’t poisoning him. So hard to know how to thread the needle on things like this. “So, perhaps a new topic would be less awkward than poisons.” He nodded gratefully. “In that case, let us return to why you are here! Do you plan to ask me to marry you because you want my money? Or are you only here to save my wicked murdering soul?” He set the cup down with shaking hands. Eliza sighed inwardly. She really should learn some diplomacy. “Madame I confess me intention was not to do either. But perhaps I should leave if you are disinclined to have company.” He began rising to his feet. Eliza regretted her choices. “No please. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. It has been quite terrible around here recently and I seem to have lost all of my manners. Sit. Please. I promise to be a better a hostess.” He blushed again and resumed his seat. “Grief is very trying…” He allowed kindly. Eliza felt a strange compulsion to be honest with the fresh faced young clergyman. “Is it very wicked, if I have felt no grief for either of deaths come to my house? Both men were incredibly cruel to me and I was grateful to be relieved of them.” He sighed. “No. It is not wicked to be relieved when a painful thing is over, provided that you did nothing to hasten it.” He replied, looking into the leaves of his tea. Oh dear. He was fishing now wasn’t he? If he was fishing, she would have to be wicked. “Sir, if you think I had anything to do with either death you really ought to speak with your predecessor. He saw both of them day they died, and retired from his position very shortly afterward. I wasn’t even home when my husband perished.” It was true, but coincidental. Her father had died of the drink and her husband from a hunting accident. The old Vicar could hardly be blamed for either of those. The young man stood up suddenly, opening and closing his mouth as if trying to form words. He failed. Instead he grew much redder in the face, then hurriedly bowed twice with increasing awkwardness and rushed toward the door. Well. She should run after him and apologize, but he was already halfway across the lawn to his carriage. Pity to waste all his effort in getting that far if she were drag him back now. Her servants (inherited servants) were looking at her with disdain. She’d only brought two of her own to the estate, her ladies’ maid, and her stable hand. Not a choice on her part – another part of her father’s poverty. He’d had to sell her attendants along with her as means of a dowry. “Oh stop looking at me like that.” She admonished the maid and the butler. “I didn’t hurt the poor thing.” Eliza looked around the powder blue wall papered room. Ugh. Whoever decorated this manse had been blind. She’d change everything. “As long as you’re in here. Start tearing out the wallpaper. I’m going to riding. I need the fresh air.” She took the cake knife from the serving tray and slid it under the edge of the paper where it was coming unglued from the wall. “There. I’ve made a start.” She turned on her heel and left the room in a swish of flouncy black mourning attire.