A Sinister Service

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “I’m sure Mr. Tremaine is very grateful.”

  “Is he? Hmph.” Moira Wickham set her hands on her fleshy hips. “The moment the men came back, we were patted on our heads and told to return to our proper places. And when I asked him if some of us might be allowed to submit original artwork for new patterns, he bowed down to Ronald Mercer, who insisted women hadn’t the skill to compete in the china industry, that Crown Lily would be taking a frightful risk to allow it.” She rubbed her hands together as if to brush away crumbs. “And that was that.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Phoebe arrived at Lyndale Park feeling as though she’d been submerged in murky water and wrung out to dry. She wanted only to retreat to whatever guest room she’d been assigned to and sleep until dinnertime. They had achieved little at the Crown Lily Potteries, other than to establish that she and her siblings had a far different opinion as to what her grandparents would prefer. Fox had stood firm on his recommendation that they should forget the china altogether and bring home dogs instead. As outlandish as the notion seemed at first, she wondered now if perhaps he had landed upon an ingenious solution to their dilemma.

  There had once been a full host of hounds at Foxwood Hall, before the war. Each autumn, Grampapa and Papa would host a hunt for some several dozen guests lasting four or five days, with teas, dinners, and other entertainments planned around the daily rides across the estate. They’d had pet dogs as well, and they had enjoyed the full run of the house. A pair of spaniels, a Great Dane named Horace . . .

  Phoebe’s throat tightened, remembering how most of the animals, including the horses, had been given over to the war effort. Dogs had been used to relay messages through the trenches. It had hurt Grampapa dearly to see them go, but he’d done his part to help the soldiers.

  She blinked away the memories and turned her attention back to the property they’d just entered. The approach to the house appeared peaceful enough, with twin lines of laurel trees, all trimmed to a uniform size, casting their wintry, skeletal shadows over the drive. The lawn sprawled to either side, framed by thick forest and, in the distance, rolling hills. Closer, stone benches, an arched bridge over a stream, and flowerbeds, however dormant now, created a picturesque scene. The house itself was a three-story redbrick manor in the Carolean style that dated from the mid-seventeenth century, charming and understated, yet grand nonetheless.

  Phoebe had been here before, but only once, and that nearly a year ago when Julia and Gilbert Townsend had first become engaged. The estate had not originally belonged to Gil’s family, and hadn’t been passed down to him through the generations. His roots here weren’t like those of the Renshaw family at Foxwood Hall.

  Gil hadn’t been in the china business, but had purchased controlling shares in several of the region’s coal mines. As they had learned today, it was the combination of coal and water that had made this area perfect for china production, as well as powering other industries. Gil had acquired Lyndale Park when he became a viscount after the Boer Wars, and apparently a bit of a fortune had come with the property. To be fair, though, he had amassed a fortune of his own in industry, first from the production of industrial steam engines, then motorcar engines. He had prospered even more during the Great War by diversifying into airplane engines.

  Phoebe didn’t begrudge him that. Perhaps there had been a time when Gil Townsend, Viscount Annondale, contributed honestly to the changing world, helping to usher in new technology that would make life easier for subsequent generations. But somewhere along the way, he had lost his sense of honor and fair play, done regrettable things, and paid with his life.

  And now the fate of Lyndale Park hinged on the life of Julia’s unborn child. If a boy, he would be the new Viscount Annondale and inherit the property, the manufacturing plants, and the bulk of Gil’s fortune, leaving Julia overseeing all of it until the child came of age. A girl, on the other hand, would have an annuity, no doubt a generous one, but limited nonetheless, and Julia would gain control over nothing.

  Fenton brought the Rolls-Royce to a stop in front of the pedimented entryway. He’d given Julia no further reason to complain about his driving, to the vast relief of them all. Yet, as he opened the rear door for them, a chill traveled up Phoebe’s spine. The quiet, the closed front door, and the lack of anyone outside to welcome them reminded her of another arrival, well over a year ago, to their cousin Regina’s home. That visit had ended in a manner Phoebe cared never to see repeated.

  When still no one stepped out to greet them, a look from Julia sent Fenton to the front door. He raised the knocker and let it fall several times, until finally the front door creaked open. The butler, as Phoebe remembered from her previous visit, peeked out. A ridge of annoyance stood out across his brow. “Yes?”

  Phoebe and her siblings traded mystified looks. Phoebe went to Julia’s side. “Are you sure you let them know we were coming?”

  “Of course I did. I wrote to Veronica last month.” Her gaze darted over the front of the house, as still as a tomb. Then she strode to the entrance and nudged Fenton out of the way. “Let us in, Carmichael.”

  The butler’s dark eyes went wide. “Lady Annondale? Good heavens, my lady, do come in. All of you, come in.” He thrust the door open and stood aside to allow them to file into the vestibule. Once he’d closed the door behind them, he stuttered an apology. “We h-had no notice of your coming, m-my lady. I assure you, had we known we’d have m-made ready.”

  “What on earth are you saying, Carmichael?” Julia slipped her cashmere cape from her shoulders. Carmichael scrambled behind her to catch it before it fell to the floor. “As I just told my sister, I sent advance notice a month ago.”

  “I wasn’t informed, my lady.”

  Julia pushed out a sigh. “I can’t imagine my letter going so far astray. Something is fishy about this, Carmichael. But very well. Please ready enough rooms for us and let the cook know we’re here.”

  “Yes, my lady, right away. I’ll . . . er . . . escort you to the drawing room and have tea sent up immediately.”

  “No need to escort us.” Julia stepped into the colonnaded front hall, tiled in marble, furnished in gilt, and presided over by a Baccarat crystal chandelier that hung from two stories above their heads. Julia breezed by these surroundings and proceeded toward a pair of open doors. “I know the way.”

  “I’ll let the others know you’re here, my lady.”

  Julia stopped short and pivoted back around to face the butler. “The others? Who is here besides Miss Townsend?”

  It had been agreed, upon Gil’s death, that his sister, Veronica, would be allowed to continue living here, especially since Julia had elected to remain at Foxwood Hall with her family during her pregnancy. The butler’s suddenly cagey expression gave Phoebe an uneasy sensation . . .

  “Miss Blair and Mr. Shelton have been . . . That is to say, my lady . . .”

  “They’re living here, too?” The shock on Julia’s face was entirely genuine. “In the main house?”

  “They are, my lady.” The man compressed his lips, an entreaty forming in the lines of his taut features.

  But it was the look on Julia’s face or, more properly speaking, the anger that set Phoebe’s feet in motion. She hurried over and slipped her hand around Julia’s upper arm. “It’s all right, we’ll deal with it. They haven’t been hurting anything by being here, and it’s certainly not Carmichael’s fault.” She felt the draining of Julia’s tension against her palm.

  “No, it’s not Carmichael’s fault. Though as to whether Mildred and Ernest have been hurting anything or anyone by being here . . . we’ll see, won’t we?” To the butler Julia said, “Please let them all know we’re here, and that we’ll be staying a few days at least, if not longer,” she added in a murmur. “And do tell them we’re presently in the drawing room until the bedrooms are made ready for us. And then, good heavens, I’ll need a lie-down.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Looking immensely relieved that he wasn’t going t
o be held to blame, Carmichael turned away to climb the stairs.

  “Oh, and, Carmichael,” Julia called to him. Slowly he turned back. “I expect to stay in the master bedroom.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched downward, the only sign he gave that Julia’s wishes might cause a bit of a problem. With a nod Carmichael made short work of the stairs.

  A quarter of an hour later Phoebe and the others were enjoying the tea and sandwiches the cook had sent up for them. “What a grueling day,” she commented, selecting a crustless smoked salmon sandwich from the platter. “It’s good to finally be able to relax.”

  “I thought we accomplished quite a lot.” Teacup in hand, Julia leaned back in her chair. She smoothed the fingertips of her left hand around the smooth porcelain, perhaps unconsciously, just as Phoebe caught herself doing. She had already gauged the thinness of the china, judging it not nearly as delicate as the china they’d seen today at Crown Lily. In fact, the cup seemed almost unwieldy in its thickness, something she knew she would not have thought before today’s tour. She raised her cup higher to read the mark on the bottom: Henslow Potteries, it read.

  Julia went on, “I’m especially impressed with Mr. Mercer’s suggestions and initial design. I think he’s our man.”

  Amelia looked up from her deviled ham. “I thought Mr. Bateman captured exactly what Grams and Grampapa would like. His designs weren’t nearly as outlandish as Mr. Mercer tried to make out.”

  Julia shrugged. “They’re both working hard tonight to impress us tomorrow.”

  “I just hope we can come to an amicable agreement by then,” Phoebe murmured behind her teacup. “But it’s looking doubtful.”

  “What was that?” Julia pinned her with a sharp stare.

  She assumed an innocent expression. “Nothing.”

  Fox sent a smirk in Phoebe’s direction, not aimed at her, she thought, but at the situation.

  Approaching footsteps echoed in the main hall. Moments later Julia’s three in-laws sauntered in. Veronica Townsend, Gil’s middle-aged, unmarried sister, looked defiant, her square face set and determined. Ernest Shelton, Gil’s cousin once removed, frowned at them from behind his spectacles and bit his bottom lip apprehensively. Phoebe wasn’t fooled. Though he might appear a mild-mannered veterinarian, Ernie knew how to be downright devious when he wanted something. Julia’s third relative by marriage, Mildred Blair, Gil’s illegitimate daughter, spared a cool smile for Phoebe and her siblings, tossed her bobbed black hair, and dropped into the nearest armchair.

  Julia surveyed them with a bored expression, then made a gesture with the hand holding a corner of a cucumber sandwich. “Veronica, Ernie, won’t you both sit down? Mildred certainly has no problem making herself comfortable.”

  Mildred only curled her lips, which had seen a liberal application of lip rouge. Veronica made a convulsive motion that set her bulky middle jiggling. “I do not need to be invited to sit in my own home.”

  “Nor do I,” Ernie parroted, though a good deal less impressively.

  “To my knowledge, Ernie . . .” Julia paused to take a dainty bite of her sandwich. She took her time in swallowing, then continued. “This has never been your home. Or am I mistaken?”

  “No, you’re not mistaken.” Mildred Blair crossed one leg over the other and swung her pump-clad foot up and down. A dark-haired beauty with translucent skin and striking features, Mildred had been Gil’s personal secretary for nearly ten years, and no one during that time had ever guessed the true nature of her relationship to her employer. “It’s lovely to see you all. How have you been? When are you due, Julia?”

  “In two months,” Julia replied succinctly, and raised her teacup to her lips. She lowered it with a pensive click against the saucer. “Now that I think of it, Mildred, this has never been your home, either. At least, not this part of it. Didn’t Gil allocate you a room on the third floor while you worked for him? And do you find it appropriate to be living here now?”

  A ruddy tinge entered the raven-haired woman’s cheeks and something in her eyes hardened. Even Phoebe stiffened slightly against the back of the settee. She, Mildred, and indeed everyone else in the room understood Julia’s implication. Mildred might have resided at Lyndale Park previously, but essentially she had done so as a servant. Yes, an upper servant and a highly skilled one, but a servant, all the same. A sense of chagrin swept over Phoebe. She thought it mean of Julia to bring attention to this now.

  “Julia, why don’t we—” Phoebe had been about to suggest they come to an agreement wherein all of them would share the house for as long as needed, but Veronica interrupted her.

  “Who are you to decide who comes and goes?” She aimed her venomous tone at Julia. “This has never been your home, either, and God willing it never will be.” Her gaze flicked to Julia’s belly and back up to her face.

  “That’s unkind,” Amelia said with a gasp. And no wonder. Veronica’s pronouncement amounted to wishing ill on the unborn child. Phoebe believed circumstances were about to spin out of control. Yet, it wasn’t Veronica’s outburst that most concerned her, but Ernie’s sinister little giggle. She met his gaze and stared him down, wondering how she ever found anything in this man to admire.

  And as for Julia . . . she merely sipped her tea and again gently placed the cup on its saucer. “As Gil’s widow I am his closest living relative. I’m sorry, Veronica, but that’s the truth. As such, I have every right to be here, and every right to occupy the master bedroom. Am I to understand one of you has moved into it?”

  No one said anything, but both Veronica and Mildred darted looks at Ernie from beneath their lashes—Veronica churlishly and Mildred coyly, with yet another little smile playing about her mouth. It seemed she had recovered from Julia’s slight and was ready to enjoy watching the others experience similar discomfort. Her behavior didn’t surprise Phoebe at all, for she had previously shown herself to be a shrewd and grasping young woman.

  “So it’s you, Ernie.” Julia gave a laugh. “It makes perfect sense, I suppose. Veronica has the room she has always occupied here—why move? And I very much doubt Mildred would find her father’s former suite to her liking.”

  Mildred nodded in agreement. “I find the colors overbearing and the furnishings heavy and old-fashioned,” she said without rancor.

  “So that leaves you, Ernie, thinking that as Gil’s only male heir, you have the right to take what was his?” Julia tilted her head as if in genuine interest. Phoebe knew better. She was baiting Ernie, as he would soon discover.

  Like Veronica, he had remained standing. Now he moved onto the hearth rug, where he could look directly down on Julia. “I am not taking anything that isn’t mine by rights. I have lived on this estate, seeing to the livestock, Gil’s horses, his dogs, and those of the tenants and villagers, for nearly twenty years now. I’ve endured Gil’s insults, his offensive behavior, and his absolute delight in making my life a misery.” He fell silent, heaving, his nostrils flaring. He turned away from Julia, walked several strides, pushed his glasses higher on his nose, and then turned around and retraced his steps.

  “And then you come along, with your flirting and cajoling and your promises to make Gil happy, and everything I suffered for, waited for, counted on—gone . . . in a moment.” He snapped his fingers. “You made my entire life here a waste of time, and now you begrudge me the master bedroom? How dare you? How dare you even—”

  Phoebe was on her feet in an instant. “That’s enough, Ernie!” Amelia also hopped up and ran to Julia’s side as if to shield her from harm. Phoebe seized Ernie’s arm. He tried to yank it free, but she held on, and then Fox was there, too, standing toe-to-toe with Ernie, his face pressed close. It forced Ernie to back up a step.

  “If your life is a waste, Ernie, it’s your own fault,” Fox said with more controlled anger than Phoebe had ever heard from him. “I’m sorry if you put all your eggs into Gil’s basket. That’s not Julia’s fault. I’ll thank you to vacate the master bedroom and leave
my sister alone.”

  Ernie’s expression crumpled into one of sheer incredulity. “You’re a child. You know nothing of life, of what it is to have your hopes crushed. Who are you to tell me anything?”

  Fox pressed closer still. “I’m the next Earl of Wroxly, that’s who.”

  * * *

  Eva stood behind Amelia at the dressing table that night, brushing out her honey-blond hair, which fell in soft waves to her shoulders. Of necessity, Amelia and Phoebe were sharing a bedroom, as they often did when away from home. Eva enjoyed seeing how well they got on with one another, and having them together in the same room certainly made her job easier.

  “Eva, you should have seen Ernie’s face.” Amelia leaned her head back, her eyes falling closed; she always had enjoyed having her hair brushed. Eva took long, slow strokes, just as Amelia liked. “He was positively livid. I believe the exact color is magenta. And though I hate to admit it, Fox was magnificent. Wasn’t he, Phoebe?”

  “Fox surprised us all.” Phoebe had already crawled under the covers of the wide bed she would share with Amelia. She, too, closed her eyes. “He’s grown up quite a lot these past months. Since Julia’s wedding, really.” Her eyes came open, and she stared hard at the ceiling. “But I tell you, what happened downstairs has left me unsettled. I wish we were all staying at a hotel. I’d feel safer.”

  Alarmed, Eva stopped brushing, her hand hovering in midair. “You can’t mean Mr. Shelton could become violent? Surely, his talk was merely that?”

  “I hope so,” Phoebe replied distractedly.