“If nothing else, your grandmother is pleased to thwart this developer and his plans to bring his loud, new-moneyed compatriots to our peaceful village.”
Phoebe grinned. “We don’t know that they’ll be loud.”
“Your grandmother insists they will be. And so we must do what we can for Little Barlow, but more importantly, for Keenan Ripley.” A worried look came over him.
“Do you think he’ll be formally charged?” Phoebe asked him.
He shook his head slowly. “I hope not. Like most people here, I don’t wish him to be guilty. A horrible thing to contemplate, brother against brother.” He set his book aside and linked his fingers over his abdomen. “It’s far more comforting to think a stranger did this.”
Phoebe sensed more, as if Grampapa had his own ideas about the guilty party but didn’t like to say. The only stranger she could think of in Little Barlow currently was the American, Mr. Walker. But he had no reason to have killed Stephen Ripley. True, she and Eva had bandied the notion that he might have wanted to be rid of both brothers, but too much would have depended on luck for such a plan to work. And she didn’t think Mr. Walker was the kind of man to leave anything to luck.
A pounding echoed through the Great Hall, startling them both. Grampapa came to his feet. The pounding continued. “What on earth? Is that the front door?”
Phoebe beat him to the doorway. “It certainly sounds like it.”
She watched Mr. Giles hurry across the hall into the vestibule. A moment later the pounding stopped, but a voice carried through the house. An angry one.
“I demand to see Lord Wroxly. This instant.” Both the voice and the accent identified the speaker as Horace Walker. Phoebe exchanged a look with her grandfather.
“Don’t go,” she said. “Don’t give that rude man the satisfaction.”
But Grampapa stepped around her and traversed the hall to the vestibule. Before he reached it, Horace Walker came striding into the Great Hall as if he had a right to be there. “There you are. I presume you’re Archibald Renshaw?”
Phoebe gasped at the man’s presumption in addressing her grandfather as though they were equals. Then she caught herself. She of all people disdained the notion of class distinctions. But she also disdained this man and his audacity in barging into her home and speaking to her grandfather without a hint of respect. She hurried to her grandfather’s side.
“You.” Mr. Walker thrust a finger toward her. “Trying to get information out of me. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, would it?” His attention swerved back to Grampapa. “Did you send this minx and her sister to do your dirty work?”
“I beg your pardon.” Phoebe heard Grampapa’s colossal effort to hold his indignation in check. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about. And I’ll thank you never to speak of my granddaughter that way again.”
Mr. Walker ignored the latter and addressed the former. “I’m talking about this family sneaking down to the bank and trying to muscle in on my purchase of the Ripley land. I’m not going to stand for it. The land is as good as mine.”
“From what I understand, no sale can go through until Keenan Ripley’s fate is determined. If he’s exonerated, which I fully believe he will be, he will not only own his share of the land, but will inherit his brother’s as well.” Grampapa assumed the expression of someone striving to be helpful. Yet Phoebe heard the condescension in his voice. “That is how inheritance law works when there is no will. And according to Mr. Evers at the bank, Stephen Ripley had no will. Most young men of his age don’t, you realize.”
“Don’t presume to lecture me about the workings of the law.”
“But as an American, you might be unaware of how such things work here in England,” Phoebe said, slipping her hand into the crook of Grampapa’s arm to present a united front. “And no one sent me to speak with you today. It was merely a coincidence that my sister and I chose the Calcott Inn for lunch. Well, they do have the most complete dining menu in the village.”
The American ignored her. “You’re not going to get away with this, Lord Wroxly.”
“I’m merely interested in acquiring the same parcel of land as you. There are no laws against that. It happens all the time.” Grampapa extended his hand to the other man. “May the highest bidder win.”
Horace Walker stared at the hand but didn’t deign to shake it. His gaze flicked back up to Grampapa’s face. “I have big plans for that land. Important plans that will help this village and everyone in it. I can’t see a man like you going into the resort business. What could you possibly want to do with it?”
“We have no extensive orchards on the estate, and I’ve always fancied having one.” He turned his face to Phoebe and winked. “Isn’t that so, my dear?” She grinned and nodded.
Mr. Walker gave a snort. “I know something about your kind. Since the war, none of you is as rich as you once were. My guess is you’re unable to buy the land outright. But I can, and I will outbid you, Lord Wroxly.” His voice oozed contempt, inflaming Phoebe’s dislike of the man even more. But she kept her features placid.
Her grandfather offered an equally placid smile. “Then as I said, may the highest bidder win. But only after Mr. Ripley’s fate has been determined. Good day to you, sir.”
“Good day.” Mr. Walker spoke the pleasantry from between clenched jaws. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”
Grampapa had already turned away, and Phoebe with him, to retrace their steps to the library. Under his breath, he murmured, “A pity, that.”
Phoebe couldn’t have agreed more.
* * *
Eva spent the rest of that day and the following morning catching up on chores, such as hand washing some of Lady Phoebe’s delicate lace collars, gloves, and silk scarves. Some things were not to be trusted to the laundress or to the harsher detergents she used. Eva often considered such tasks labors of love, not only due to her affection for her mistress, but to her admiration of the lovely artistry of the garments.
About midmorning, Hetta found her belowstairs, just as Eva was about to brew a cup of tea. “Fräulein, you can come, ja?”
Eva stood at the range, kettle in one hand, a match in the other, about to light the burner. The question of whether Hetta’s request was imperative came to her lips, but one look at the other lady’s maid’s clear blue eyes supplied the answer. She blew out the match and set the kettle down. “What’s wrong? Is it Lady Annondale?”
Hetta nodded, her plain but pleasing features filled with worry. “Madame is crying. She doesn’t stop.”
Eva hurried to the backstairs and together they began the climb. “When did this start?”
“Since early. I bring her tea to her room, like always. I find her weinen . . . weeping.”
“That long?” Eva hurried her steps. “Why didn’t you come and get me sooner?”
“Madame say not to.”
“Well, you were right to disregard that, though you probably should have done so earlier.”
At the family’s bedroom wing, Eva pushed through the door that separated the servants’ landing from the carpeted corridor. Several doors down she stopped and listened, hearing sobs coming from inside. She knocked softly.
“Go away,” came a mournful command from inside. “Please.”
Holding the knob, Eva pressed her face close to the panels. “My lady, it’s Eva. Please, may I come in?”
A long pause ensued. Then, finally, “All right, yes.”
Eva opened the door just enough to slip inside, but held it open long enough for Hetta to follow her into the room. Whatever the matter might be, she felt Hetta had a right to be there. Despite a bit of a language barrier, the Swiss woman’s fondness for Lady Annondale was genuine and mutual, and it would be to the benefit of both to learn to get along without Eva’s intervention. Someday, Lady Annondale would have a home of her own, as would Lady Phoebe. And possibly, someday, Eva as well.
For now, Eva went to the dressing table, wh
ere Lady Annondale sat on the cushioned bench, her elbows propped on the marble surface and her head in her hands. There were several discarded, damp handkerchiefs lying about, a couple more on the floor. Lady Annondale still wore her nightgown and wrapper. Her hair had been put up loosely, but golden tendrils had escaped their pins and clung damply to the sides of her neck. Eva grasped her shoulders and felt their trembling. “My lady, what is it? Please tell us what’s wrong.”
From within Lady Annondale’s fingers came muffled words Eva couldn’t make out. Only their sentiments were clear. This poor woman was distraught and, at present, inconsolable.
“Please, my lady, we can’t help you unless you let us.” She realized she should have had Hetta prepare a fresh tray of tea, and now, over her shoulder, she mouthed the instructions. When the other maid looked puzzled, Eva said with emphasis, “Tea. Strong.” Hetta nodded vigorously and set off. Eva couldn’t help thinking she looked rather relieved before she turned away.
Moving around to the side of the bench, Eva knelt and tried to coax Lady Annondale’s slender hands away from her face. “Whatever it is can’t be as bad as all that, my lady. You have your family around you and a houseful of people who care about you.”
More mumbling made its way to her ears.
“My lady, I cannot make out a word you’re saying.”
The hands finally fell away to reveal swollen eyes and a blotchy face, which still, somehow, remained beautiful. “Eva, I’ve made a horrible hash of things.”
Oh, dear. So much for that fortune-teller relieving Lady Annondale of her cares. “Not a bit of it, my lady. I’m sure whatever feels so wrong at the moment will right itself in time. Before you know it.”
Lady Annondale shook her head so adamantly, more strands of hair cascaded from her coif. “I’m going to be a dreadful mother.”
“Why on earth would you say such a thing? You’ll be a wonderful mother.”
“Why, Eva? What about me”—she broke off and gestured at herself—“possibly makes you believe I’ll know how to raise a child?”
“Why, many things, my lady.” Eva paused to stroke Lady Annondale’s hair and gently draw it away from her perspiring neck. “To begin with, you’re intelligent and strong and confident.”
“I’m selfish, you mean.”
“Of course I don’t mean that. Those are assets, not faults. Also, you’re stylish and artistic and creative.”
“Shallow and self-absorbed.”
“My lady, please. You have many wonderful qualities to pass on to your child. And love, my lady. I know you’ll shower this child with love.”
Lady Annondale shook her head, her features crumpling. “I’m cold and intolerant and unforgiving. Just ask Phoebe.”
“Your sister doesn’t think that about you.”
“Doesn’t she? She should.”
“Come, let’s sit on the chaise and you can tell me what’s really troubling you, yes?” After opening a drawer in the dressing table and taking out a fresh handkerchief, Eva grasped Lady Annondale’s shoulders again and nudged her to her feet. To her relief, Lady Annondale didn’t resist. Eva moved some pillows aside and they sat side by side on the chaise longue at the foot of the bed. Eva pressed the handkerchief into the younger woman’s hand. “Now then, tell me what brought this on. You’ve seemed happy up until now.”
Lady Annondale dabbed the handkerchief at her eyes. “I woke up today with the realization that I’m not a good person, Eva.”
“My lady, those are the old doubts talking. The ones that rose up after your husband died. None of that was your fault, and you mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t blame myself for Gil’s death exactly, but there are so many things I should have done differently. Would have done, if only I’d stopped to think first. I try to change, Eva, I truly do. I tell myself I will, that I’ll be a stronger, better person. But I simply . . . don’t change. Something I can’t control prevents me from being what I wish to be. And now, of course, it’s too late.” She shook her head. “Too, too late.”
Was she talking about Theo Leighton, the man she would have married were it not for the family’s dwindling fortunes? Eva believed so. The pair had begun an attachment nearly two years ago, rather on the sly, but financial pressures and a sense of duty to the family sent Julia Renshaw in another direction entirely. Tragically. And Eva knew Julia’s outward persona of haughty, cool disregard was merely a shield protecting a vulnerable core.
But then, what suddenly shattered that shield? Why today? In the years since her father’s death in the war, Julia Renshaw had held herself together with meticulous care.
Her gaze fell to the rounded belly beneath the silk wrapper, and she remembered from her own sister’s letters during each of her pregnancies that expecting mothers were sometimes prone to doubts, even regrets, and a general malaise of the spirit. Could that be what had shaken Lady Annondale’s confidence?
With a little gasp Eva sat up straighter. Alice. Why, all this time, her sister hadn’t been acting herself, and Eva suddenly realized the most likely reason why. Good heavens!
She turned her attention back to Lady Annondale and tried to offer what reassurances she could. “It’s never too late to make changes, my lady. But just for now, until the child is born, why not simply concentrate on being happy for his sake? You spend far too much time alone in this room, and that’s never good for anyone. One begins dwelling on things and imagining all manner of faults in oneself. It isn’t healthy. Meanwhile, your grandparents would like to see more of you each day and . . . why, you could get involved at the Haverleigh School, like Lady Phoebe, and occupy your mind with matters you can change for the better. Put your talents to work.”
Lady Annondale dabbed at her eyes again and gave a delicate sniff. “Phoebe does seem happier since she joined the school administrators, and of course there’s her RCVF.”
“Exactly. And you were a great help to her in sorting donations the other day. You could become more involved with that, or you could start a project of your own. I think you should speak with your grandmother about it. I’m sure she could help you come up with ideas.”
“I’m not exactly the charitable sort,” Lady Annondale said ruefully. “But I suppose . . . maybe something to benefit children, since I’m to be a mother. I believe I might like that.”
“There you are, then.”
A knock at the door signaled Hetta’s return. She shouldered her way into the room and set the tea tray down on a nearby table. Julia rose from the chaise, and Eva came to her feet as well.
“Another thing, my lady.” She lowered her voice so the other maid wouldn’t hear. “Hetta has a heart as big as the Swiss mountains. I believe she’ll be your best ally if given the chance. Let her help you. Don’t shut her out.”
“I won’t. Thank you, Eva. I believe I’m feeling better.” Lady Annondale put her arms around Eva and held her close a moment before releasing her. The renewed vigor in her expression assured Eva she would be fine, at least until the next bout of nerves took hold. And when that happened, Eva would be there for her.
Upon leaving Lady Annondale’s room, she went back downstairs, her revelation about Alice foremost on her mind. If only her parents’ cottage had a telephone, Eva would have set a new plan in motion immediately. Instead, she would give Connie a shilling to bring a message to her mother the next time the housemaid went into the village on errands. Eva hoped it would be sometime today.
CHAPTER 14
It wasn’t until after dinner that Phoebe had a chance to compare notes with Eva. The pair set out on a walk through the gardens under a dusky sky edged in pink on the western horizon.
“Horace Walker was impertinent and deliberately attempted to intimidate my grandfather,” Phoebe said to Eva once they’d cleared the terrace by several yards. The path took them past the flower beds with their abundant autumn flowers, to the sculpted shrubbery that was already beginning to show a want of care. Phoebe noted the blurring of t
he typically meticulous lines now that there was no head gardener to tend them. Could they convince Mr. Peele to return to Foxwood Hall?
“His impertinence doesn’t surprise me, my lady.” Eva paused to secure the top button of her coat. “It’s in his nature. But intimidation? With your grandfather? Where does the man summon the cheek?”
“It’s probably in his nature as well. He shows a distinct lack of breeding.” They shared a chuckle, and she linked her arm through Eva’s. “Seriously, he didn’t exactly frighten me, but he did unsettle me. I wouldn’t want to encounter him alone.”
“No, my lady, you most assuredly wouldn’t. Not to change the subject, but have you spoken with your sister recently?”
“Julia? Not really since she and I went to the bank. She wasn’t pleased with the part I coerced her into playing, so I thought it best to keep my distance for a time.”
“If you could, seek her out sooner rather than later.”
Phoebe stopped walking and turned to study Eva. “Has she gone off the rails again? Like when she ordered her wardrobe be given away? Good heavens, packages are already starting to arrive from London and Paris. She’s spending money she doesn’t yet have. And may never have.”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s more to do with what she can’t give away. Herself.”
“I don’t follow.” Yet on second thought, Phoebe believed she did. “Julia’s unhappy. Or more to the point, unhappy with herself.”
Eva looked away, hesitated, and then nodded. That, too, Phoebe believed she understood. It took a lot for Eva to betray a confidence. Obviously, she judged whatever was bothering Julia important enough to mention.
“I’d wager the first indication of her unhappiness was a desire to change all the outward signs of the person she is,” Phoebe said. “Her attire.”
“Yes. But that doesn’t work, does it? I can’t tell you the specifics, but suffice it to say she’s in a vulnerable state. She is not the pillar of strength people often believe her to be.”
They resumed walking. Phoebe scrutinized the gravel walkway, not wishing to stumble in the fading light. “I’ve long known that. But she makes it so difficult to be close to her. If she would only give an inch. . . .”
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