The Talking Board

by Issy Brooke

By the time she could escape to her room, she was ready to punch a wall, cry a flood of tears, burn the house down, and quite possibly run away to join the circus.

  She did none of those things. She sat at her desk, her hands flat on the wooden top, and breathed deeply. She was a mess of emotions on the inside, but she would rather let them consume her from within than let Mrs Davenport know how deeply she had been upset.

  There was a restrained tap at her door. Marianne composed herself and invited them in with a word. Emilia de Souza, Phoebe’s lady’s maid, slipped in and came to Marianne’s side.

  In a sense, they were roughly equals. Emilia’s family was old, and well-respected, and various off-shoots sat in Parliament or held good livings or were high in the military. But Emilia’s immediate family had lost their income and so they lived a quieter life, “according to their means.” Ann Davenport thought them a very fine example of how people should be, Emilia’s “fancy” name notwithstanding.

  “God has commanded, and they have obeyed,” she had said of the de Souzas.

  Marianne took Emilia’s hands. The younger woman looked upset, and that was unusual. She usually retained a calm air, even when chaos reigned around. “What’s happened?”

  “Mrs Cogwell is packing to leave.”

  “Mrs Cogwell! I know she said that she would but I thought it only an idle threat, and her place here is secure. The male servants are at risk of losing their jobs, yes. And the lower girls. But Mrs Cogwell? We cannot do without a cook!”

  “She says she is under too much unnatural pressure, and things have changed, and she is not respected any longer, and she cannot be in a place where she is not trusted. She is seeking a new situation and has already made contact with some agencies.”

  “Oh ...”

  “You may swear in front of me.”

  “I cannot think of words strong enough.”

  They half-smiled at one another. “Emilia, I don’t think there is anything I can do.”

  But they both knew that there was.

  SHE WENT TO SEE SIMEON and Tobias, and wondered whether to ask Simeon if she could move into his workshop with him. Her father could sleep on a truckle bed perhaps.

  Then their downfall would be complete. They could not rise up from such a move. It would not be a temporary thing. It would mark her removal from polite society, completely and utterly, surely. She could not imagine how her life would progress from that point.

  She had a little money again, now, with what she had got back from Simeon. She could ask her father to raise a loan and use that to move away. Ann Davenport would surely give up, if Marianne was out of the house. They could leave London and go somewhere cheaper. Head north, perhaps.

  But they were still tied as blood relations. Marianne felt pursued, and thought of relentless foxhounds, and tried to put it all out of her mind as she ascended the steps to speak once more to Tobias.

  He had relaxed, she found. He was speaking more now, although it was to Simeon rather than her. She told them both of what had been happening, and advanced her theory about the jewels and the potential whereabouts of Mrs Newman.

  “You know that house as well as anyone, Tobias. Where could she be hiding?”

  He didn’t know exactly where, but he admitted that she could be in there, somewhere.

  “There are rooms and cupboards there that have not been opened for years. A hundred years or more. And doors connecting rooms in strange ways. You can go in one room and she will slip out another way, and you could circle one another for hours and never come across her. She need not be hiding in a hole or behind a secret panel.” He nearly laughed. “I made it into a game of mine, sometimes. She never found me if I did not want to be found. And the same now goes for her.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Simeon. It is still preying on my mind about these noises. You are an illusionist. How do you create noise?”

  “It depends on the noise. Can you imitate it?”

  She threw her voice as high as she could, and made some sing-song screeches.

  “No,” said Tobias, listening with a certain degree of pain on his face. “It starts almost as if it is speaking. It reminds me of Mary Had A Little Lamb.”

  “I thought of nursery rhymes when I first heard it but I never caught any words,” Marianne said.

  “It used to be clearer.”

  “It has deteriorated with time?” Simeon interrupted. “And there is no kind of phonograph in the place?”

  “No,” Marianne said, looking to Tobias for confirmation.

  “No.”

  “Still, a trick is being played and I would wager if you spent a night there now, you would not hear it – unless you are right, and she is still there, and she wants to scare you away. Look for something that could be a phonograph in disguise.”

  “If it is in disguise, how would I recognise it?”

  Simeon rolled his eyes. “Use your analytical nature,” he told her. “How does a phonograph work?”

  “A cylinder with grooves in it, and a stylus, and a handle, and a large trumpet to amplify the sound.”

  “Or a disc. It need not be a cylinder. And it need not be tinfoil. Look also for wax,” Simeon told her. “There are remarkable things being invented now. Even the trumpet may not look like a trumpet. Just as that bunch of flowers there looks like a duck.”

  It was definitely a duck but she believed him anyway.

  “I must go there right away,” she said, enthused by the new information. “Would you two like to come as well? We could spend the night there, looking for Mrs Newman. Or ghosts. And waiting for the screams.”

  “That sounds utterly horrid, and no, thank you,” Simeon said.

  Tobias shook his head too. “I’ll not ever step foot there again,” he said, and that was that.

  MARIANNE FOUND PHOEBE lying in her bedroom in the dark, curled up on her side under the covers. It was late afternoon.

  “Can you talk?” Marianne whispered.

  “Come in. The worst is passing. But be gentle.”

  “Can I fetch anything for you?”

  “No, no. Emilia has been a darling.”

  “She told me about Mrs Cogwell.”

  “Oh, don’t remind me.” Phoebe did not even try to sit up. She remained in a foetal position and spoke without opening her eyes. When her headaches came on, only sleep seemed to really help. “I do not know what I’m going to do about that. I have had an actual argument with her – with my mother, I mean. I asked her to leave. She said no. And then I told her to leave. But she won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pride. Genuine concern, too. She honestly thinks the household will end up ruined if we continue as we are.”

  “Financially?”

  “In a sense, yes. But she has become so much more religious and she is honestly terrified for the state of our souls. She believes we will burn in hell, and because she loves us, she does not want that.”

  Marianne winced. “I think she was always religious-minded but it does seem to have overtaken her more lately.”

  “She is a woman who needs a project, an outlet for her energy. Just like you. You share the same stubbornness and determination.”

  “Ha. I suppose we ought to have been friends.”

  “Indeed. So now we must toe the line and live according to our means and present the right sort of modest face to the world, and you, Marianne...”

  “Must marry. That’s why I’ve come to see you. You need to organise a dinner party on my behalf, as soon as possible. I will be bringing a guest to totally throw your mother off the scent.”

  “Are you going to fake a marriage?”

  “Fake it? I may even do it, just for the fun of it.”

  “You would not. Who is it? Simeon – oh, Simeon! That poor boy. But she will recognise him from his appearances here, and he has not made a good impression. I am sure she had ordered him to be shot if he reappears. She won’t be convinced and she certainly won’t improve.”

>   “You just rest now.” Marianne patted her on the shoulder. “I have it in hand.”

  “What is happening with the case at Rosedene? Is it over?”

  “No. And yes. There is more I need to investigate.” She thought about her urge to spend the night there. Not tonight, she decided. She was needed here. And she had to portray the part of the dutiful young woman to convince Mrs Davenport that she was mending her ways. “But I’ll tell you about it when you feel better.”

  Phoebe let out a long breath.

  Marianne quietly withdrew.

  Nineteen

  Marianne chafed under the obligations she had placed on herself during the following days. She could not escape the planning and preparation for the dinner party. She wanted to send a message to the police, urging Inspector Gladstone to measure every inch of Rosedene and charting its crevices and nooks on a plan to identify the secret hiding place – or places. Meanwhile, she was stuck at Woodfurlong, and working at Mrs Davenport’s every beck and call. She sent out one personal invitation to the dinner party. To her delight, it was accepted.

  With the restrictions now enforced on Mrs Cogwell, the preparation of a meal was a much more involved task for Phoebe and she needed Marianne’s help. Mrs Cogwell was to leave at the end of the following week, and Phoebe had promised her a glowing character, in spite of Mrs Davenport’s threats, and said that would do everything she could to find her a new position. Mrs Davenport had been shocked at the cook’s announcement and then chosen to see it as an example of exactly why she could not be trusted. Mrs Davenport said that she was vindicated in her imposition of new rules, and carried a new air of rather unchristian smugness.

  Marianne avoided being in her presence as much as possible. She wanted to make a good impression, but it was easier to do that from a distance. If she was near to Mrs Davenport, she was not sure she could hold her tongue under provocation. She took it upon herself to decorate the table and the dining room in general, and was assisted by Emilia who had been reading the very latest advice on such matters. The theme was to be “the seaside” and Marianne was attempting to create a centrepiece out of shells with cascading ferns to look like seaweed.

  Phoebe spent most of the day of the dinner party in the kitchen, and took control of the fine sugar-work for the meal, and then the pair of them had the onerous task of changing and preparing themselves for the evening. Emilia came to help Marianne after she had dressed her mistress, and paid particular attention to her hair, concocting a style to hide her forehead as much as possible. “Mrs Davenport says that we are not to hint at intelligence,” she said.

  Phoebe was already tipsy by the time that Marianne came down to await the arrival of the other guests. Price was in a corner of the room, by the fire, hiding behind a newspaper, and Mrs Davenport was prowling around, criticising everything for either being too showy, or not showy enough.

  She descended at last on Marianne, who could not get away any longer. “I am perfectly on edge with excitement, awaiting your beau,” she said.

  “You must not worry. I have been heeding your advice. I know that you wished to make your own choice for me but...”

  “No, no, child! I had no wish at all to impose my views on you! I only insist on your happiness – that is all.” She smiled almost as if she meant it.

  When Jack arrived, Phoebe greeted him warmly, though she shot a glare of disapproval at Marianne. When Marianne had told her who she was inviting, right at the very last minute, Phoebe had been annoyed.

  “He promises not to break into any of your private rooms this time,” Marianne had assured her.

  Price looked confused at first, but saw that the womenfolk were not making a fuss, and decided that he probably didn’t recognise the man after all.

  Mr and Mrs Jenkins were likewise perfectly polite.

  And Jack turned on every inch of charm for everyone. When he was introduced to Mrs Davenport, his low voice and gentle handshake seemed to make her almost – just almost – giggle.

  “Is she simpering?” Marianne hissed to Phoebe.

  “My own mother? No! And she is a happily married woman.”

  “I would wager your father is enjoying every moment of his current freedom.”

  “No, I should think he is lost without her. All the more reason for your plan tonight to work. I must ask, though, how did you get that man to agree to play along?”

  Marianne smiled thinly. “Ah, well, as to that, he does not entirely know what he is playing along with.”

  “Marianne! That is not fair.”

  “It doesn’t matter to him. All I need to do is portray to your mother that I am close to an eligible and decent gentleman. He is good at pretending to be that. She can leap merrily to her own conclusions. But really, he’s only here for the food and drink. And perhaps another issue that you can help us with – but I’ll talk about that later. He will need your help, Phoebe. Don’t breathe a word of my plan to him, though, please.”

  “But when he finds out? He must find out.”

  “How can he? It is not as if your mother will whip out a clergyman from a cupboard and demand to see us wed right here, tonight.”

  “Do not give her ideas. She might. Ah, hello, Mr Monahan, I am so delighted you could join us. I think we are ready to go through...?”

  UNFORTUNATELY, MARIANNE had underestimated the force of Mrs Davenport’s determination to see Marianne wed, and out of her daughter’s house. And she had the tact and diplomacy of a brick breaking a window.

  Even Mr and Mrs Jenkins, who were uncommonly beige people with no inclination to gossip simply because they were too dull to notice anything worth gossiping about, had begun to shift awkwardly in their seats as Mrs Davenport pressed Jack with questions that were far too personal and very obviously matrimonial in character.

  Marianne tried to deflect these probes but she knew she was seeming rude by interrupting, and even Phoebe was growing red in the face as her mother spoke.

  “So tell me, dear Mr Monahan, what are your thoughts on servants? If a household of, say, five hundred a year, has a man in livery, what do you make of that?”

  “Preposterous, of course,” he replied, after sneaking a look at Marianne who was indicating, with her eyebrows, that such a thing was impossible.

  “Quite, quite. Those that emphasise only the outward show of things are like gaudy peacocks, useless in society, quite useless. Like the ringing of a hollow bell, one might say. And where do you worship, sir?”

  “Um...”

  It was the longest dinner party that Marianne had ever endured and she could no longer meet Jack’s eye by the end of it. She pretended instead to be a blushing maiden, every time he addressed her, and looked down at her plate.

  When the ladies withdrew and left the men alone, Phoebe walked next to Marianne and said in a low voice, “You are looking less and less like a woman in love, you know.”

  “I think Jack is going to kill me.”

  “Oh dear; a lover’s tiff so soon.”

  “Don’t joke about this, Phoebe. Oh good; some wine.”

  “Mother will not be pleased if you over-indulge.”

  “Nothing I do can please her. Anyway, one cannot over-indulge on this lightly-scented water. How far can she possibly water it down?”

  “I know. I am sorry,” Phoebe said. “I know exactly how it feels. Not the wine, I mean, the feeling that you cannot ever please her.”

  Marianne was struck suddenly and she stopped. “She is proud of you, I am sure. You are married and have children, after all.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose I have done my duty. But she has never once told me that she is proud of me. I shouldn’t be upset. I am sorry – your own mother, after all...”

  Marianne nodded. She remembered how her father had told her that he thought her mother would have been proud of her, and she kept it to herself. Poor Phoebe. It was not right that Marianne felt more loved by a dead mother, than Phoebe felt by her own living one. She rubbed her cousin’s a
rm. “Wine, then, for both of us. Come on.”

  The men joined them remarkably quickly, as was the growing fashion, in spite of Mrs Davenport’s displeasure. Marianne mingled with Mr and Mrs Jenkins, but Jack hovered nearby, shooting increasingly dangerous looks in her direction. Mrs Jenkins smiled and whispered to Marianne, “I think he desires a private word, my dear. It would not do to play too aloof.”

  Relationship advice from the dullest woman in the county. Marianne grimaced briefly. She excused herself and walked to a closeted corner of the room, away from the fire, where a few chairs were scattered artfully around a circular table. Jack followed, clutching a glass of wine. He set his back to the room so that no one could see his face, and got close as he hissed, “You have let everyone believe we have an understanding, haven’t you? I am not even going to ask what is going on – it is plain. You are playing me for a fool!”

  “No, Jack, please don’t mistake me,” she replied. “You and I have both agreed that we are not suited as partners. And I have not forgotten my promise to you.”

  “Then why this farce?”

  “I can explain. Shall we take a turn outside? For the air?”

  “I guess, then, that you don’t wish to be overheard. Come along. My darling.” He extended his arm and she took it. He fixed a wolfish and entirely fake grin on his face and led her out of the drawing room, much to Mrs Davenport’s mixed delight and horror. Marianne saw her push Phoebe towards them, probably intending for her to be a chaperone. But Jack walked briskly and the front door was half-open, with Mr Barrington peering out into the night. They slipped past him and turned left, down the stone steps and into a small shrubbery that lay just off the front lawns. The lights on the porch cast enough light for them to see one another.

  Marianne rather wished she was in complete darkness.

  “I will not lie to you. You are going to think all of this rather trivial, but I assure you, the situation has plunged the entire household into the utmost misery.”

  He let go of her arm and waited.