Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  Silently, she hoped he would continue to be deserving of hers.

  “I have the utmost respect for Lady Wycliffe,” he said. “I’m sure that if she took any action against the curate, she was only acting in Diana’s best interests, as any mother would.”

  Perhaps not any mother, Lydia thought. Her own was devoted but would not have gone to such lengths to frighten off a suitor. Of course, Lydia had never had an abundance of suitors to frighten, so the comparison was less than apt.

  “Thank you for telling me,” Lydia said.

  “I can show you the kitchens now, if you like. Unless you merely wanted to speak with me in private?”

  Lydia hesitated. The butler seemed like he was being honest now. Did she dare be honest with him in return?

  She took a deep breath. “I would still like to see the kitchens, if I may. I know it’s unconventional, but…” She bit the inside of her cheek. “But I don’t think the constable is right about what happened to Mr. Stewart.” She squared her shoulders and met Mr. Cooper’s gaze. “I think he’s wrong, in fact. I intend to learn what really happened, so yes, I would like to see the kitchens, and I would like for you to tell me everything you remember about that night.”

  11

  Lydia pressed her chin into the high collar of her dove-colored pelisse and buried her hands more deeply into the fur-lined muff she had borrowed from Isabella. The muff was fashionable and consequently far too large; Lydia rather felt like she was hauling around a small sheep.

  Still, she couldn’t begrudge the warmth the fur provided. The morning had been bitterly cold, as if the entire earth had chosen the morning of the curate’s funeral to mourn him.

  “It was so kind of your parents to pay all the funeral fees and draperies, Izzy,” Justina said. A cloud of white steam rose with her words and dissipated in the morning air.

  “Mama said it was the least she could do, as she refused to attend the funeral,” Isabella said.

  “You can scarcely blame her for that,” Justina said. “It’s a dreadful business.”

  “Her reasoning indicated that well-bred ladies do not attend funerals,” Isabella said with a small sniff. “Personally, I find that notion lacking in true feeling, though Mama assures me she has abundant emotion.”

  “Your mama’s opinion can’t be true of all well-bred ladies if your aunt is here.” Caroline nodded in the direction of Lady Huntington.

  Lydia hadn’t expected to see Lady Huntington in the pews this morning, but her surprise had faded quickly. The great lady was known for her philanthropy and had worked more closely with the curate than anyone save Lydia’s father himself. It seemed only right she should be there to pay her respects.

  “I’m glad Diana stayed home,” Lydia murmured. “I think she, at least, would have been truly overcome with grief.”

  Isabella glanced around, though nobody else standing about the freezing churchyard seemed to be listening to their conversation. “I’m beginning to question the depths of Diana’s grief. She’s been acting very oddly ever since we found poor Mr. Stewart’s body.”

  “That isn’t a surprise,” Caroline said. “One can’t expect to avoid death entirely, but stumbling upon a body in one’s sitting room? I daresay none of us ever anticipated such a thing.”

  Isabella pursed her lips.

  Lydia remained silent, hearing their words but letting the meaning wash over her. It was difficult to focus on anything but her memories of last night.

  As if able to read her thoughts, Justina wrapped a motherly arm about Lydia’s shoulders and pulled her in close. Justina’s red curls brushed against Lydia’s cheek, smelling of her usual splash of orange water. “I know a bit of what you’re experiencing, darling. I remember what it was like to dress Mr. Audley’s body for his burial. The solemnity of it weighs heavily on one, doesn’t it?”

  Lydia nodded, not daring to speak.

  The church doors opened, and the visiting vicar strode out. Men from the parish followed and carried the simple pine coffin with its draping of black superfine through the small churchyard. The bearers’ feet crunched on the thin layer of fresh snow that had fallen last evening, and Lydia held her breath as the coffin passed her. Caroline reached for her hand, and, finding it to be buried in the borrowed muff, settled for holding her around the waist.

  Tears welled in Lydia’s eyes, hot against the cold air, and she blinked them back.

  The coffin and its attendants disappeared around the side of the church. When the last bearer was gone, Lydia allowed herself to breathe again. She had been glad to attend the funeral, if only to pay her respects to the kind curate, but she was gladder still that ladies were discouraged from attending the burial itself. She couldn’t bear the thought of warm, gentle Mr. Stewart being consigned forever to such cold, hard ground.

  He wasn’t really in the ground, she knew. He was in heaven by now. It was nothing to be sad about.

  And yet she was sad. She felt shaken and all mixed up, and she wasn’t sure if it was because he was dead or because she was becoming utterly convinced that his death hadn’t been an accident.

  Mr. Cooper could not have killed Mr. Stewart, of this she was certain. He had seemed too honest yesterday, too open. Besides, she’d known him for years. If he were a killer, surely she would have sensed it.

  Mrs. Shrewsbury approached, her face partially obscured by her large, slate-blue bonnet. She handed Lydia a bunch of rosemary sprigs tied with black ribbons.

  “Thank you again for these,” Lydia said, leaning her head against Caroline’s shoulder.

  Caroline gave her a slight smile. The simple funeral favors—rosemary for remembrance—had come from her kitchen garden. Lydia hadn’t even had to ask; Caroline had simply sent over a giant basket of them the day before yesterday, along with a sweet note offering her condolences to Lydia’s parents. Even in the middle of February, the sharp leaves gave off a piercing fragrance.

  Lydia joined her mother in handing the sprigs out to the members of the parish who had attended the funeral. She stopped when she reached Lady Huntington and offered the lady her hand.

  “I’m so terribly sorry for your loss, Lady Huntington,” Lydia said. She had to look up to meet the woman’s eyes; she was tall and broadly built, with sharp features and dark eyes that swallowed the light of day. Lydia’s stomach rippled a little; Lady Huntington’s reputation for generosity and kindness was spotless, but her intense gaze spoke to other, more hidden qualities.

  “I’m equally sorry for yours, Miss Shrewsbury.” Lady Huntington took Lydia’s offered hand and clasped it gently. Her creamy kid gloves were immaculate. “I’m grateful for all you and your mother have done to provide Mr. Stewart with a respectable funeral.”

  Lydia thanked her. “It wouldn’t have been suitable to do anything less for a man so admired.”

  Lady Huntington pressed her thin lips together. Her gaze drifted from Lydia to the church, behind which the coffin was likely to be in the ground already. She seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Lydia cleared her throat.

  “My lady? Are you well?”

  The woman’s eyes snapped back to Lydia’s face. “Well enough. I was merely reflecting that perhaps Mr. Stewart was not so universally admired, at least not by Mr. Buxton.”

  Lydia acknowledged this with a small smile. “They were both enamored of the same lady. If the classics tell us anything, it’s that devotion to a woman can inspire conflict between the best of men.”

  “Theirs was quite a conflict, from Diana’s hints, and Mr. Buxton was not alone in having some bone to pick with him,” Lady Huntington murmured, seeming to speak more to herself than to Lydia.

  Lydia frowned. “My lady?”

  “The Sunday before Mr. Stewart was killed, I overheard him and Mr. Pemberton having quite a row,” Lady Huntington said. An instant later, she pressed her lips back together, as if regretting the words.

  Behind her, a few of the mourners drifted out of the churchyard. Lydia expected Lady Hu
ntington to excuse herself to do the same, but instead, the lady offered her arm.

  “It’s bitter cold, but I don’t wish to leave just yet,” she said. “Will you walk with me?”

  Startled, Lydia took the offered arm and kept pace with Lady Huntington as she strolled toward the church side yard, where the rose bushes Mrs. Shrewsbury lovingly attended stood with their bare stems cut down for the season.

  “It grieved me to witness so much bad feeling between the two gentlemen,” Lady Huntington said after a while, seeming to feel they were secluded enough for conversation. “Even so, the argument spoke to Mr. Stewart’s sense of duty, for I got the distinct impression he was attempting to call Mr. Pemberton to account.” She glanced at Lydia. “I suppose you know that gentleman has a reputation for being free with his money at the gambling tables, and free with his drink besides.”

  Lydia frowned. “Those rumors have not surprised me, but I confess I cannot imagine Mr. Stewart arguing with anybody.”

  “The curate must have been provoked indeed to engage in such a quarrel.”

  Cautiously, Lydia watched Lady Huntington as they walked. Her demeanor was more relaxed than Lydia had yet seen; she seemed glad to have someone to talk to. After so much trouble, it wasn’t surprising that she should wish to discuss everything that had happened over the last week. It was odd that she had chosen Lydia. They had scarcely spoken outside of the two dinners at the Wycliffes’, and now here Lady Huntington was, gossiping about the two gentlemen as if the venerable lady and the churchmouse were old friends.

  “The curate was the soul of patience. Still, as you said, young bucks must clash, and I suppose Mr. Stewart was a young man underneath all that godliness.”

  “Too young,” Lydia agreed.

  Lady Huntington sighed. “It’s terrible to think a man was murdered while I was reading in my room. Terrible and strange. For a robber to break in and kill my friend even as I was engaged in the most ordinary of amusements… It leaves one feeling out of sorts.”

  Lydia almost tripped over a loose stone on the path but quickly regained her footing. A small brown bird hiding among the bushes fluttered from one dark stem to another with a whisper of tiny wings. “Reading? I thought you were in the Rose Room?”

  “I was late; my sister was annoyed with me, if you recall,” Lady Huntington said. “I had dressed for dinner too early and thought I’d read a little before joining the party. The book was so compelling I lost track of time. Have you read Amelia by Mr. Fielding? It’s very good.”

  She had arrived in the Rose Room after the others, Lydia remembered now. She hadn’t paid it much notice at the time; Isabella and Diana had been discussing some finer point of an opera they had attended the last time they’d been in London, and Lydia had been glad to hide herself in a corner to listen. In fact, she had successfully managed to evade all but the most superficial of conversations until shortly before they had gone in to dinner.

  Now she was on Lady Huntington’s arm, wandering around a sleeping garden and chatting about Mr. Stewart’s romantic intentions and Lady Huntington’s favorite novels. She supposed there was nothing like a murder to bring acquaintances together.

  “I can’t say I’ve had much time for reading of late,” Lydia said.

  “Nor I, which is perhaps why I was so swept away in my story. This past month has been a burdensome one. I was so looking forward to spending a fortnight with my sister and having time for amusements,” Lady Huntington continued with a heavy sigh. “I never expected to find myself here.”

  Sympathy prodded at Lydia. “I’m sure your company has been a great balm to Lady Wycliffe.”

  “I hope so, as she dearly needs it.” Lady Huntington glanced sidelong at Lydia. “My niece is hardly the soul of discretion, so I’m sure you’re aware of Lady Wycliffe’s distaste for her husband’s guest.”

  “Mr. Pemberton?” Lydia said as they reached the edge of the walkway through the rose garden. “Yes, Isabella mentioned.”

  “Isabella seems to be a touch fonder of the gentleman.”

  Lydia bit back a smile. “I think she finds him amusing.”

  “And so he is.”

  A shadow moved at the edge of the church. “Indeed, many people think so,” a male voice announced.

  Lydia jumped and clutched at both Lady Huntington’s arm and the muff, heart racing and skin prickling with gooseflesh.

  A moment later, the gentleman himself emerged from the shade behind the church, and anger replaced Lydia’s fear. Since the night of the murder, she had leapt at every shadow. Would the anxiety of the ordeal never fade?

  “Mr. Pemberton,” she said sharply.

  The gentleman touched the brim of his Wellington top hat. The hat looked silly on him, Lydia decided. He’d have done better not to wear one at all rather than sport such a jaunty brim at a funeral.

  “Lady Huntington. Miss Shrewsbury.”

  Their names hung in the air, as if he expected them to respond. Lydia had nothing to say to the man, but after a moment, Lady Huntington offered a small, belated curtsy, and Lydia mimicked her.

  “How did you enjoy the service?” he asked.

  Lydia frowned at him. “I don’t think one can properly enjoy such a thing, but I thought the visiting vicar delivered a beautiful sermon.”

  “It’s odd, no, to conduct an entire service before a funeral on a Wednesday?”

  “For our beloved curate, who gave so much to this parish?” Lydia said. “No, I don’t find it odd.”

  The sharpness of her tone startled her. She was ordinarily so quiet and polite. What was it about this man that dissolved her patience faster than the winter morning dissolved the clouds of her breath?

  He seemed neither startled nor perturbed. “May I walk you home, Miss Shrewsbury?”

  Lydia furrowed her eyebrows at him. “Sir, I am home. My father is Lanceton’s vicar, if you recall.”

  “To your door, then. I should hate to see a lady unattended at this dark hour.”

  “But I am not unattended,” Lydia said. “Lady Huntington is a most pleasant companion.”

  Lady Huntington patted Lydia’s arm and gave her a smile that rankled Lydia’s very soul.

  “I’ll be quite all right if you’d like to walk with the gentleman.”

  Lydia could almost hear the gossip, that the vicar’s spinster daughter was finally being courted by a London rake. She cringed at the thought.

  “Indeed, I had better leave at once,” Lady Huntington continued before Lydia could make an excuse. “My sister will be expecting me.”

  Before Lydia could say or do anything, her companion had disengaged her arm and excused herself, abandoning Lydia to Pemberton’s attention and leaving them standing uncomfortably far from the others in the churchyard.

  Lydia had already sat through a heartbreaking funeral service and pressed on through the biting cold. Now she was expected to make conversation with this vastly uninteresting flirt? It was too much to tolerate in the course of a single morning, but there was nothing to be done. Reluctantly, she accepted his offered arm.

  “I was surprised to see so many ladies at the service,” he said as they followed Lady Huntington’s tall figure at a distance. “Your friends must be a great support to you.”

  Lydia narrowed her eyes and considered him. His apparent sincerity unsettled her even more than his usual airy manner.

  “You seem very close to Miss Wycliffe,” he continued, when she didn’t seem inclined to respond. “Will I be rude if I confess to some surprise?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Why would that be a surprise?”

  “You don’t seem like the kind of woman Miss Wycliffe would take as a friend.”

  Lydia drew back her shoulders. “What sort of person do you think Miss Wycliffe would prefer, sir?”

  He ignored her insulted tone. “She seems the sort to collect friends as wealthy and glittering as she is.”

  “You’re right, I’m not wealthy,” she said. “And I’m e
xceedingly glad you don’t consider me to be glittering.”

  His shoes clicked against the stone walkway. “I’ve offended you.”

  “On the contrary, I’m flattered.”

  He examined her, his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to figure out a puzzle. “Do you enjoy being a vicar’s daughter?” he asked after a while.

  Lydia resisted the sudden, uncomfortable urge to laugh. “I’m not certain it’s the kind of thing one enjoys or doesn’t. I’m glad to have the parents I do, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I ask because the position seems to suit you,” he said. “Or so I thought, at first glance. After our conversation in the Wycliffes’ sitting room the other day, I’m not so sure.”

  He was trying to bait her into asking what he meant. He wanted to excite her curiosity. No doubt it was one of the many little tricks he used to captivate the interest of less critical ladies.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “You’re investigating, too, aren’t you?” he said, leaning in closer. “My sketch of the murder scene interested you, and now I find you alone and interrogating Lady Huntington.”

  Lydia’s gaze snapped to him. “I was not interrogating her.”

  “Weren’t you? I would have been.”

  “It seems to have escaped your notice, but we are two very different people.” She removed her arm from his and shoved her hand back into the enormous muff. “Why on earth would anyone trouble poor Lady Huntington like that?”

  “Poor Lady Huntington?” he said. “You don’t think she had as much motive to kill Stewart as anyone else?”

  This time, Lydia didn’t attempt to stifle her laughter. He really was desperate to obtain her interest. The only thing she couldn’t figure out was why.

  “You think Lady Wycliffe’s dear friend, a noted philanthropist and wife of a knight, killed the curate of Lanceton parish?”

  “Murders have been committed by people more respectable than her.”

  “You seem to think you’re in a daring Mrs. Radcliffe novel instead of studying the murder of a man whose demise has already been ruled a theft gone wrong,” Lydia said.