Amelia peered over her shoulder. “Perhaps we should all leave in the morning. Go home.”
Phoebe sat up, shaking her head. “No, I’m overreacting, to be sure. It just seemed so unlike Ernie. At least the Ernie we met at Gil and Julia’s wedding. Of course his actions afterward did put my first impressions to the test.” She paused, then smiled. “At the same time, Fox’s reaction to Ernie today seemed so unlike him, the Fox we’ve known in recent years.”
“That’s an understatement.” Amelia shook her head with a chuckle. “But I don’t know if you’re overreacting when it comes to Ernie’s behavior. We mustn’t leave Julia alone with him. None of us should be alone with him.”
“If you ladies prefer, I’ll sleep here tonight, rather than on the third floor.”
“Would you?” Amelia looked and sounded relieved. She scanned the room. “Will the settee be roomy enough? Perhaps we can ask for a cot. What about Julia? Do you think Hetta will spend the night in her room?”
“I have no doubt of it.” Eva gently nudged Amelia around to face the mirror again, so she could finish brushing her hair and plait it for sleeping.
“Tomorrow, when it’s time to decide on the china, let’s let Julia have her way. Whatever she wants.” Phoebe spoke to Amelia’s reflection in the mirror. “That’s the only way we’ll be able to finish up here and go home.”
Amelia scrunched her nose. “Even if Julia insists it be modern and geometric and entirely without character?”
“Whatever you decide in terms of the china, so be it,” Eva said. “But perhaps you shouldn’t be in such a hurry to leave Lyndale Park.”
Phoebe blinked in obvious surprise. “Why on earth do you say that? Don’t you long to leave as much as we do?”
“In a way, yes.” Eva helped Amelia up from the dressing-table chair, then turned to face Phoebe across the room. “But part of the reason for coming here was for your sister to assert her rights as the Viscountess Annondale. She is correct that as the viscount’s widow, she is his closest living relative, and if her child is a son, she’ll have every right to live here with him.”
“Oh, I hope she doesn’t.” Amelia went to the bed and kicked off her house shoes. “Better she lives with us at Foxwood Hall.”
Eva shook her head. “Her son won’t inherit Foxwood Hall, my lady. Your brother will. No, the next Viscount Annondale will inherit this property, and the sooner the rest of the viscount’s family comes to terms with that, the better—for them, and for your sister.”
“Do you think Julia will have a boy?” Phoebe tilted her head at Eva. “Do you have a feeling about it?”
“Truly, I don’t. I’m no fortune-teller,” she added with a laugh. Phoebe laughed, too, for only weeks ago Lady Annondale had tricked Phoebe into driving her to see a fortune-teller, a charlatan who had assured them the child would be a son. “But she has as much chance of having a boy as a girl, and it seems only wise to position herself here as her child’s guardian and advocate.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Phoebe conceded. “And you needn’t sleep here. I’m sure we’ll be fine. I don’t think Ernie will be sneaking around on any midnight jaunts, and, at any rate, we can lock the door.”
Amelia turned large eyes on her sister as she climbed into bed. “What if he has a duplicate key?”
“You’re such a goose.” Phoebe leaned back against the headboard. “But I still think we should let Julia decide on the china. It was her idea, after all.”
“If she didn’t want our opinions,” Amelia retorted with a yawn, “why did she bring us along?”
Eva went to the bed to straighten the coverlets over her ladies. Sometimes she truly did feel like a mother to them, and it warmed her heart to see them contented and safe. “She brought you along, my lady, so you could all agree with her.”
* * *
The next morning Eva was glad to see the Renshaws had all survived the night, as she knew they would. In the end she had gone to her room on the third floor, which she shared with Hetta. The Swiss woman, too, had offered to spend the night in her mistress’s room, but Lady Annondale had sent her upstairs at about midnight. Eva suspected that had as much to do with Hetta’s light snoring as Lady Annondale’s courage.
Now Eva and Hetta poured tea and passed around fruit and toast to the family, who had gathered in Lady Annondale’s room—the master bedroom, as she had insisted. It seemed Mr. Shelton had vacated immediately following yesterday’s altercation in the drawing room.
“He not only moved out of this bedroom, but the house itself, and retired to the cottage he occupied during Gil’s lifetime,” Julia told them.
“Carmichael confided to me that Ernie couldn’t seem to leave fast enough,” Fox said around a bite of sliced peaches with a liberal coating of clotted cream. A sharp reprimand for speaking with his mouth full would have been forthcoming, had his grandfather been there. As it was, Eva couldn’t help smiling or inwardly congratulating the boy for yesterday’s triumph. Of that, she believed, Lord Wroxly would have been proud.
“So we have something to discuss this morning,” Phoebe said after draining her cup and setting it aside. Dear Lady Phoebe typically needed a bit of fortification in the morning before attending to any pending matters. “The china service. Amelia and I were talking last night—”
“Ganging up against me?” Lady Annondale’s blond eyebrows, artificially darkened, rose in accusation. Yet, Eva heard the laughter in her voice and was glad of it. Perhaps today’s visit to Crown Lily wouldn’t be a repeat of yesterday, after all.
“I still say a pair of Staffordshire bull terriers,” Fox interjected.
“Not a bad idea, actually.” Phoebe’s pronouncement astonished them all, judging by the looks they sent her. “Perhaps we should look into a pair of pups before we leave. But as for the china”—she addressed Lady Annondale now—“we think you should have the final vote.”
“Well, of course I have the final vote. I never for a moment doubted it. I’m the only one here with impeccable taste, aren’t I?”
“Julia, can’t you accept this gracefully?” Amelia broke her scone in half and dipped a corner of it into the jam she’d dabbed onto her plate. “We don’t wish to argue anymore. Since this entire endeavor was your idea, you may have the honor of deciding what shape and pattern we choose. Only . . .”
Lady Annondale searched her youngest sister’s face and narrowed her eyes. “Only what?”
“Please don’t pick something hideous.”
Lady Annondale’s mouth fell open. She appeared to search for words, then pinched her lips together for an instant. “All right, a compromise. How about a modern shape, but we’ll incorporate florals with the crest. But not overly flowery. And with a bit of gold highlighting. Will that do?”
Amelia nodded enthusiastically. They stood to ready themselves to leave for the factory. Eva lingered, then approached Lady Annondale.
“I’m proud of you, my lady. It’s gracious of you to compromise this way.”
Another lady’s maid would have been reprimanded for having the cheek to tell her employer any such thing, but Lady Annondale broke into a grateful smile and might even have blinked away a bit of moisture in her eyes. “Thank you, Eva. Coming from you that means a lot. Perhaps I’m finally growing up.” She smoothed a hand over her belly. “And not a moment too soon.”
* * *
The Rolls-Royce passed under the arching Crown Lily sign. Fenton maneuvered through the main quadrangle and into the smaller enclosure that housed the administrative building they had visited yesterday. This time Jeffrey Tremaine awaited them outside, and Phoebe wondered how long he’d been standing there against the breezes that swirled between the buildings and scattered countless bits of ash from the bottle kilns.
He hurried to open the rear door for them even before Fenton had a chance to secure the brake. “Good morning, good morning. I trust you all had a pleasant night?”
Phoebe, Amelia, and Fox traded ironic glances, bu
t said nothing. Julia, sitting on the end, was the first to slide out. She extended her gloved hand for Mr. Tremaine to assist her.
“I believe we’re ready to make our decisions, Mr. Tremaine.”
“I . . . er . . . there might be a s-slight delay,” the man stuttered in response. It seemed his nerves had returned to plague him today.
“Is there a problem with production?” Phoebe asked as she slid out behind Amelia.
“No, no, production is running along smoothly. It’s our art director, Ronald Mercer. He’s . . . late in arriving this morning. I’ve tried telephoning his home, but his housekeeper said he left the house earlier and hasn’t been back since.” The man pressed a hand to his mouth, coloring as he did so. “Perhaps that was a bit too much to share. Forgive me. I’m sure he’ll be along any moment. But Percy Bateman is inside, waiting for you in the conference room.”
Fox ducked his way out of the motorcar. “Is Trent here?”
“That’s a good question,” Mr. Tremaine said. He smoothed his hair. “I couldn’t say. The general employees sign in at their entrance near the packing warehouse. It’s up to our foremen and department supervisors to keep track of their arrivals. And I didn’t think to ask about Trent when I telephoned over to the Mercer house.”
“Very well.” Julia set off toward the building. “Let’s go in and see what Mr. Bateman has to show us.” Mr. Tremaine stumbled to reach the door ahead of her and swung it open.
They found a delighted-looking Percy Bateman in the conference room. The teacups and other china had been moved aside, some of it now occupying the tops of the cupboards that filled one wall. Mr. Bateman had spread out several sheets of design ideas. Phoebe saw that he had built upon what he had shown them yesterday by incorporating elements of what he’d heard expressed by each of them.
“Good heavens,” she exclaimed upon studying one of them. She lifted the paper from the table and held it up. The Wroxly coat of arms occupied one side, surrounded by a scenic view of rolling Cotswold Hills, and . . . “Is that a bull terrier peeking out from behind the crest?”
The young man burst out in a grin. “Nothing to be taken seriously, my lady, but, yes, I couldn’t resist.” He aimed his grin at Fox. “Just so you know someone was listening yesterday.”
Fox took the paper from Phoebe. “This is it. Julia, here’s our design.”
“Very funny.” Shrugging out of her coat, she turned her attention to another of the examples. But then she just as quickly turned back to Fox and held out her hand. “Let me see that one.”
Mr. Tremaine held out a chair for her. She sank into it, her gaze never wandering from the paper that showed both the front and back of the teacup design. She let out a few hmms and hahs, and tilted the paper to view the design from different angles. Finally she lifted her face. “This is it. Minus the dog, of course, but this landscape around the crest—it’s marvelous. And so unique. It captures the heart of Foxwood Hall perfectly. Amelia, don’t you think so?”
Amelia went to gaze over Julia’s shoulder. “Oh, I think Grams and Grampapa will love this. Phoebe, don’t you agree?”
Could they actually have landed upon the perfect compromise? Phoebe hesitated to believe it, and who knew what would happen when Mr. Mercer finally arrived? He might present something Julia found equally tantalizing, and indecision would set in again. If only Mr. Mercer didn’t come to work today . . .
She was leaning over Julia’s other shoulder, admiring the scene of flower-carpeted hills and a brook spanned by a creamy Cotswold stone bridge. And in the middle of it all, the Wroxly coat of arms, somehow seeming part of the rest while neither overshadowing nor becoming lost in the surrounding details. She opened her mouth to add her consensus when a high-pitched wailing filled the air, barely muffled by the closed windows.
“What on earth?” Julia’s question was immediately answered by Mr. Tremaine, who’d gone pale.
“The siren. There’s been an accident.”
CHAPTER 4
“Please, all of you, wait here.” Without another word Mr. Tremaine hurried out of the conference room, with Percy Bateman hard on his heels. Phoebe heard the outside door opening and slamming shut. The siren’s continued wailing set her nerves on edge.
Apparently, Julia agreed. “I wish they’d stop that deplorable racket.”
“I’m going to see what happened.” Fox began to trace the other two men’s footsteps.
“Fox, we were told to stay here,” Amelia admonished him. She stood behind their sister, one hand on Julia’s shoulder.
Fox hesitated. “I won’t get in the way.” Then he was off.
“I’m going, too.” Phoebe didn’t wait to be told not to, nor did she look back to see if Amelia followed her. She knew her younger sister wouldn’t leave Julia’s side, and Julia certainly wasn’t going to run across the factory’s precincts in her condition.
When she reached the enclosure, she was glad she hadn’t had time to shed her coat inside, as a steely cloud cover had put a bite into the wind. The bitterness of smoke and ash from the bottle kilns stung her nose. She turned several corners and came upon the first building they’d visited yesterday, where the clay was mixed, ground, and purified. An image formed in her mind of the grinding pans, like giant dough kneaders. Good heavens—but, no, surely not that. She spotted Fox’s dusky blond hair among the sea of flat caps and kerchiefs the workers wore. More people were streaming out from the various buildings—mixers, throwers, painters—as the siren summoned them all.
“Have you heard what happened yet?” she asked Fox when she reached his side. He glanced at her briefly and shook his head before returning his attention to the clay-processing building.
After a moment he turned back to her. “I got here just in time to see Mr. Tremaine running inside. Two workers were standing just outside that door.” He pointed. “They were distraught, Phoebe. Whatever happened in there, it’s bad.”
She wished Eva were here. The thought ran round and round in her brain. Eva had managed to set both her and Amelia at ease last night, and she had said something to their sister this morning that had Julia smiling as they piled into the Rolls-Royce.
The siren cut off abruptly, the resulting silence equally jarring. Little by little, voices filled the hush as workers speculated on what might have happened. Phoebe heard the word accident repeated many times, but no one seemed to know any details.
Fox startled her as he suddenly blurted out a name. “Trent! Over here!”
The boy they had met yesterday changed direction and weaved his way across the yard, dodging around workers. He stopped a few feet away, kicking up dust, and heaved for breath. “Have you seen Jester? I can’t find him anywhere.”
“No,” Fox said, “but we haven’t been here long. Came to give Mr. Tremaine our order when the siren sounded. Come to think of it, your father wasn’t there to greet us. Maybe he has Jester.”
“Do you know where your father is, Trent?” Phoebe felt a deepening concern. “He wants this commission badly. It seems unlikely he’d miss this morning’s meeting.”
“I can’t say.” Trent searched the faces around them, frowning. “We were both here early today, before sunup. Jester too. Mr. Tremaine doesn’t mind him being here, so I bring him most days. Father said he wanted to speak with the head clay mixer about a new formula he’d calculated. Something that would make an even thinner cup without sacrificing strength. I think he wants it for your grandparents’ china.”
“Well, he must be here somewhere.” Fox tapped his friend’s shoulder when Trent’s attention appeared to wander. “Let’s try and find out what’s going on. Have you heard anything at all?”
A clanging bell drowned out Trent’s reply. Moments later a motor ambulance clattered around a corner and entered the enclosure. It pulled up near the entrance to the clay-processing building. The bell quieted as the doors swung open and four men in dark blue St. John’s Ambulance Brigade uniforms scrambled out. Two of them went around to the ba
ck of the vehicle, opened the rear door, and dragged out a stretcher. Then all four hurried into the building.
“Someone’s hurt. Badly,” Trent said, unnecessarily. The tension among the crowd heightened. Phoebe could all but hear their collective intake of breath as they waited to see who among them had been injured . . . and how.
Before the door to the building had fully closed, it jerked partway open again. Those nearest the door eased away as if allowing someone through; yet, at first, Phoebe saw no one. An instant later Trent’s dog, Jester, emerged from between a knot of people in a streak of brown and white.
“Jester,” Trent called to him. The animal spotted him and altered his course without missing a step. Trent fell to a crouch, his arms encircling Jester as the dog crashed into his chest. “What is it, boy? What happened?”
Fox and Phoebe moved closer, and Trent turned a worried face up to them. “He’s trembling all over. I can’t imagine what he was doing in there, or how he got in.” He turned his attention back to the panting animal, who continued pressing against his master.
A sickening sensation went through Phoebe. A missing dog. A missing father. An accident.
Minutes later the ambulance crew reemerged into the enclosure, two of them carrying the stretcher. Now, instead of being a light burden between them, something clearly weighed it down. Something draped in a plain gray sheet, unmoving but for a minuscule sliding this way and that with the motion of the stretcher. A body. Phoebe sucked in a breath. She went several paces closer and saw ruddy stains just beginning to penetrate the sheet. Trent rose and started forward, but instinct sent her hand out. She clutched his shoulder and held him back.
Mr. Tremaine exited the building next, the wind blowing his silvering hair until thick tufts of it stood up nearly straight. His suit coat, too, blew out around him. He took no notice of either, but kept on as if driven by an unseen hand, his gaze pinned on Trent.
“What’s going on?” Fox’s question came as a whisper, little more than an exhalation. Trent stood frozen in place, while Jester cowered against his leg and shivered, as if both boy and animal already knew the truth.
A Sinister Service Page 5