by Emily Claire
“I dread the thought of telling my parents,” Lydia murmured. “Papa will be so upset.”
“Darling, you mustn’t,” Isabella said. “I’m certain my father can go tell yours.”
Lydia shook her head. “It will be better coming from me.”
“At least let Sir Charles escort you home,” Lady Wycliffe said. “I don’t think any young woman should be out on her own as long as there’s a murderer in Lanceton. Although it will be a great worry to me to not have Sir Charles home to protect us.”
“I’d be honored to take you home in my carriage, Miss Shrewsbury,” Mr. Buxton said. “The vicarage is scarcely out of my way, and Sir Charles will not have to leave the ladies.”
“Lydia was meant to stay here tonight,” Isabella protested, but quickly fell silent once she noted the tone of the room. She slumped her shoulders and leaned back into the sofa, admitting a rare defeat.
Lydia had longed to go home and avoid spending more time in Hollybrook House with strangers, but she had never imagined she would be excused from the engagement like this. She wished she could go back and chide her past self. The worries of hours before seemed so small and selfish now.
“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Buxton,” Lydia said.
“You are a true gentleman, Mr. Buxton,” Lady Wycliffe said. “Not like some I could mention,” she added in a lower tone. “It was just like Mr. Pemberton to offer to sit with a dead body. Everybody knows he’s the sort who craves excitement a shade more than is prudent.”
Lydia did not miss the irony that the same could be said of Lady Wycliffe’s eldest daughter. She was halfway surprised Isabella hadn’t herself offered to stay with the corpse.
“Perhaps Mr. Pemberton is even pleased by this development,” the lady continued. “I saw him and poor Mr. Stewart in heated conference last Sunday after services. For all I know, the curate was trying to call Pemberton to repentance on account of his reckless bad behavior and got killed for his trouble.”
“Mama, you’re overwrought,” Isabella said. “Mr. Pemberton is a known gambler, not a murderer.”
“Someone is a murderer! It could be someone in this very house!”
Lady Wycliffe seemed to have entirely forgotten her declaration moments earlier that her home could never have hosted a killer, and she glared at them all with imperious confidence. When no one tried to argue, she finally stopped pacing and dropped into a chair by the fireplace.
A long silence descended. Diana’s sobs subsided to sniffles as Mr. Buxton stroked her hand. Everyone ignored the intimacy of the gesture; the gravity of the situation required allowances be made.
The image of Mr. Stewart’s body hovered in Lydia’s mind. The wooden clock on the mantel with its painted face of lavender flowers reminded her too much of the one sitting above the corpse, and Diana’s sobs brought to remembrance all the romantic hopes and possibilities that, however unformed, would now never come to fruition. The firelight illuminating Lady Huntington’s pale face reminded her of the light that had flickered across the dead man’s cold skin, and Mr. Buxton’s blue eyes echoed too clearly Mr. Stewart’s frozen ones.
Lydia couldn’t tolerate a moment more. She rose to her feet.
“I’ll go help the maids pack my things,” she said. “Mr. Buxton, I’d be grateful if we could leave soon.”
He nodded, clearly not wishing to leave Diana’s side but equally unwilling to deny her request.
Lydia wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and fled the room.
5
Mr. and Mrs. Shrewsbury ate in silence, their forks moving slowly and their eyes focusing on their plates. As for Lydia, she could scarcely choke her food down. The marmalade on her toasted bread was too sweet, the bread itself too dry, the texture of the food unbearable. Seeing Mr. Stewart’s body had been a shock, but witnessing how the news had upset her parents disturbed her in a different and far more profound way.
She had related everything of the previous night’s events the moment she had arrived home. Her parents had fallen silent and gone straight to bed, but now the news seemed to be sinking in. At last, her mother turned to her, caution written all over the lady’s kind features.
“How is your toast, my dear?”
“Mr. Stewart was so fond of toast,” Mr. Shrewsbury said, frowning at his cup of weak coffee.
Lydia pressed her lips together and nodded.
Mrs. Shrewsbury adjusted her mob cap and tried again. “I must ask, my dear. I didn’t want to say anything last night when the tragedy was so fresh, but a mother’s concern pesters me. Is there any chance, any chance at all, that someone at the party caused Mr. Stewart’s death? None of the Wycliffes, certainly, but one of their guests? I shudder to think of you in company with anyone capable of such wickedness.”
Lydia shook her head and pushed her food around her plate. A crumb slipped off the edge and onto the plain white tablecloth. “The constable arrived before Mr. Buxton was able to have the carriage ready,” she said with a sigh. “He and Sir Charles think someone must have crept into the house and struggled with the vicar. It appeared the sitting room window hadn’t been latched, and nobody had noticed. The criminal must have come in and gone out that way.”
Mrs. Shrewsbury sighed, relief softening the sad lines around her mouth. “A robbery gone wrong, no doubt.”
“Perhaps. I don’t know if anything was taken.”
“Mr. Stewart does seem like the kind of man who might throw himself in the path of anyone who wished harm on the Wycliffes,” her mother said.
Mr. Shrewbury sighed. “Greater love hath no man than this,” he said, then trailed off.
“It may not have been love merely for the family as a whole,” Mrs. Shrewsbury replied, giving Lydia a sidelong glance. “He seemed particularly fond of Miss Diana, poor man. I have no doubt he would have sacrificed himself valiantly if he thought she might be in danger.”
Lydia, having nothing to say to this, nodded and fixed her gaze across the room. The flower-patterned curtains at the windows did little to brighten the cold winter day and nothing at all to lift her spirits.
“It’s a shame he never married,” Mr. Shrewsbury with another sigh. “He had no family of his own. We spoke about that once when he was helping me move the bookcases in the study. I daresay he left no will, either. Such a young, healthy man would have seen no need.” He pushed his spectacles higher onto his nose.
“If there’s no family, what will be done with his… with his body?” Lydia took a deep breath; she couldn’t banish the image of the dead curate from her mind.
“He’ll be buried here.” Mr. Shrewsbury cleared his throat. “A vicar from the next town will perform the service. I wish I could walk more easily to do it myself.”
Mrs. Shrewsbury placed her hand over her husband’s. “You would if you could, my love.”
Lydia raised her coffee to her lips, then set it back down without taking a sip. She could do nothing for the curate now, but there were others—others who might need her help and benefit from her presence. “Now that I’ve told you what’s happened, I’d like to go back to Hollybrook House. I’m certain Isabella is upset, and Diana took everything terribly hard.”
Mrs. Shrewsbury frowned, tension appearing around her lips and forehead. “Is that a good idea, my dear? We have no reason to think the killer isn’t still in Lanceton.”
“If he is, there’s no reason to think I would strike him as valuable prey,” Lydia pointed out. “I hardly dress like someone with jewels and pin money in my pockets.”
“Even young women of modest means are capable of attracting the attention of… certain kinds of men,” Mrs. Shrewsbury said delicately.
For the briefest moment, Lydia felt like laughing. The thought that any man would look at a churchmouse like her and experience anything but a vague desire to read his Bible and perhaps settle his debts was ludicrous.
The mirth faded as soon as it had come, however. Men like the one who had murder
ed Mr. Stewart weren’t dandies in a ballroom, and she couldn’t begin to guess at their motives. One thing was certain: If a fellow with such wickedness in his heart was determined to hurt someone, he might be willing to settle for even a churchmouse.
“Your impulse to comfort your friends is a kind one,” Mr. Shrewsbury said. “We ought to follow our generous inclinations, even when they put us at risk. Have Harris escort you.”
Lydia frowned. “I thought he was meant to mend the garden fence this morning.”
“That can be postponed,” Mr. Shrewsbury said. “My only daughter is of far greater worth than a dreary garden in February and ought to be kept much safer.” He picked Lydia’s hand up off the table and raised it to his lips for a kiss.
Lydia’s heart ached. Her father was a good man. It was too cruel that he should be stricken with such a brutal loss.
“I’ll be careful,” Lydia assured him. “I promise.”
“I came as soon as I heard.” Caroline sat on Isabella’s bed and threw her arms around Lydia. “It’s just too terrible.”
Lydia leaned into the embrace. Caroline’s jasmine-and-mint scent enveloped her, and her soft black curls tickled Lydia’s cheek.
Isabella dropped, none too elegantly, onto one of the delicate wingback chairs in front of the fireplace and slung her knees over the arm. It was a posture that would have had Lady Wycliffe in a fit—which, Lydia supposed, was half of why Isabella had adopted it. The two dogs that had trotted into the room after her settled at her feet, sharing the warm spot on the rug before the fire.
“Thank you for coming, ladies,” Isabella said. “I’m delighted to see you, of course, but more than that, I’m delighted to have company to entertain. My social obligations to you outweigh my obligations to Mama at present.”
“Mama is still horridly upset over Mr. Stewart,” Diana said from where she lounged on Isabella’s bed.
Isabella snorted. “Mama’s nerves can’t bear another conversation about that poor curate’s death, and I can’t bear another performance of Mama’s nerves.”
Lydia twisted a bit to look at Diana, who lay half-curled across Isabella’s crimson bedspread with one of Isabella’s feather pillows bunched between her head and elbow. “Have you recovered at all?”
Diana gazed across the room and out the window, although there was nothing to see aside from a few high, wispy clouds against a cold blue sky. “I don’t know how anybody recovers from a sight like that. Even the younger girls are upset, and they weren’t anywhere near the body.”
Caroline leaned over and tucked one of Diana’s honey-colored ringlets back into its Psyche knot.
“You poor dear,” she said. “I can’t imagine how troubled you must be. One feels sorry for the curate, of course, but he’s in Heaven now. The rest of us are left to grieve him, and I daresay you feel worse at present than he does, Diana.”
Diana sniffled and nodded.
“I’d feel better about it if the murderer had been caught,” Lydia mused.
The thought had haunted her last night. Whoever had killed Mr. Stewart was still out in the world somewhere. She didn’t fear the villain, not exactly. The chances of the criminal striking out of the blue, when everyone was sure to be on alert for him, seemed slim.
No, a hotter emotion than fear burned somewhere deep inside her. She wasn’t quick to anger. Indeed, she suspected most members of the parish would have thought her incapable of it. But the grief etched into her poor father’s face this morning had kindled something unfamiliar, and this new flame seemed impossible to smother.
The killer had robbed the world of a good man, and she wanted him to meet justice.
“The constable has all but given up,” Isabella said. “Father says he doesn’t think he’ll so much as send anyone out to look for the robber.”
“It’s difficult to blame him,” Caroline said. “Being a parish constable seems a thankless task.”
Isabella scoffed. “He ought to take it more seriously. He was appointed by the magistrate, and he has a duty to fulfill the position.”
“Yes, and the poor man ends up catching rats and restraining stray dogs and monitoring the pub and any number of other things, and he’s not paid for any of it,” Caroline said.
“He shouldn’t have to be paid,” Isabella said scornfully. “It’s his duty.”
“Spoken like a woman who’s never had to worry about money,” Lydia murmured. “Caroline is right, Izzy. Mr. Gibbs is hardly equipped to handle a violent murder.”
Frustration built in the pit of her stomach; even if Mr. Gibbs wasn’t up to the task, it was unbearable to think that nobody was trying to make the murderer atone for what he’d done.
Lydia kicked off her slippers and drew her feet onto the bed under her gown. She cradled her chin on her knees and watched the fire. She couldn’t wallow like this, not when the killer was still out there. Nor could she succumb to grief when she had even less cause to mourn Mr. Stewart’s death than others in the room.
She glanced back at Diana. The girl’s eyes were pink and puffy; no doubt she’d been crying.
“Are you all right, Diana?” she asked. “Truly? I know you had hopes with Mr. Buxton, but I’m sure you couldn’t help but be aware of Mr. Stewart’s fondness for you and perhaps be considering him, too.”
Diana sniffled again but didn’t meet Lydia’s concerned gaze. Instead, she stared down at the blanket.
“I’m very sad the curate is dead,” she said at last, very slowly. “He was a respected man of God and very charitable. His loss will be felt keenly in the community.”
Diana stopped talking abruptly. She had more to say, Lydia was sure of it, but nothing was about to break through those tightly closed lips.
“At least your decision is made for you,” Isabella said. “Buxton it is, and Mr. Stewart never had to suffer through getting his heart broken.”
“Izzy,” Lydia said. “Please, can you be sensitive for one moment?”
“I thought Aunt Huntington behaved very oddly,” Diana burst out. They all turned to look at her, and she propped herself up on her elbow. “She seemed to have hardly any reaction at all when we found the dead body. Our aunt is all rank and dignity, and I should have thought she would have collapsed at such a terrible sight, but she almost looked as though she wasn’t surprised at all.”
Lydia shrugged. “She must have been stunned. I certainly was.”
“Yes, but you made a pretty little scene about it,” Diana said.
Lydia made a face. The way she’d almost fallen over and ended up clutching the chair back before dropping to her knees in front of Mr. Stewart’s body had certainly qualified as a scene, but “pretty” wasn’t the word she would have chosen.
“Your aunt is known for being involved with a great many charitable causes,” Caroline said. “It’s likely she’s seen things in her ministrations that would shock more sheltered ladies.”
Isabella scoffed. “I attend to the poor and ill all the time, and I’ve never seen anything like a curate with a knitting needle protruding from his heart. That ought to have rendered anyone but a war hero insensible.”
Not a knitting needle, Lydia thought as her stomach sickened. Her knitting needle. The enormity of the distinction overwhelmed her.
Diana dropped back onto the bed and clutched the pillow to herself. She looked as if she was about to burst into fresh tears. Lydia’s heart ached for her.
Isabella sat up abruptly. “Enough of this maudlin wallowing. Lydia, fetch a deck of cards. Diana, wipe your tears. Caroline, you pick the first game, and make sure it’s something Justina can join when she arrives.” Her eyes darkened. “There may have been a murder, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves today. We’re going to play until we feel better, and I don’t care how long it takes.”
6
Lydia wasn’t exactly on top of the world a few hours later, but she was feeling immeasurably more optimistic. Afternoons spent with dear friends were one of life’s most
soothing balms, and by the time she was ready to leave for home, she had summoned up enough courage to go back to the drawing room.
She didn’t like the thought of leaving Freddie’s lace in a room where a man had been brutally murdered. But neither did she relish the thought of leaving it there, so she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and pushed open the sitting room door.
A chill swept through her. The fire hadn’t been lit today, and the high windows provided little barrier against the February cold. The room felt strangely empty, too, and it was a moment before she realized the butter-yellow carpet was gone. The bare wooden floor lent the room an austerity at odds with the warm yellow walls. It unsettled Lydia. Quickly, she grabbed her half-finished lace from the side table.
Her remaining knitting needle, the one that hadn’t been used to murder the curate, remained.
She couldn’t bring herself to touch it.
“Returned to the scene of the crime?”
Lydia jumped and whirled around, heart pounding as if it thought to escape her chest entirely.
Mr. Pemberton stood at the doorway just inside the room, arms folded and lips curled in a smile that was no doubt meant to be charming.
Lydia was not charmed. “You frightened me.”
The accusation in her tone was impossible to miss, but the man only laughed. The melodic sound chafed her.
A man had just been murdered. It was not amusing to walk around the house with impossibly light steps in order to scare unsuspecting women. That he hadn’t meant to frighten her felt irrelevant; he had done it, and he did not look sorry.
“Excuse me,” she said, clutching the lace in a tight fist.
“Gladly.” He stepped aside, leaving the path to the door clear.
Lydia scurried past him, then spun around and narrowed her eyes at the gentleman. “What are you doing here?”
“Just taking a turn about the house.” He swept one hand to the side. “As you can see, I am already dressed for dinner, but it seems I am the only one. I thought I’d take the long way to the Rose Room to stretch my legs.”