Moira Wickham remained silent for several moments, studying Eva with a shrewd expression that made Eva suspect she hadn’t fooled the other woman. That was, until Moira spoke next.
“Can you get away for an hour or so, come six o’clock?”
“Why?”
“Can you?”
Eva pretended to think it over. “I suppose I could, but only for an hour. I’ll need to return and ready my ladies for dinner by a bit after seven.”
“All right, after that, then.”
Eva again pretended to think. “They shouldn’t need me again until bedtime. So, yes, I could manage it.”
“They won’t object to your leaving?”
“I can’t imagine they would. As I said, they won’t need me.” Basically, another lie. Between dressing her ladies for dinner and helping them to bed, Eva usually spent the hours tidying their wardrobes, cleaning shoes, mending anything that needed it, and readying soiled clothes for the laundress. However, Phoebe and Amelia could have no objections to her using that time to become better acquainted with Miss Wickham—and perhaps delve further into her resentment against Mr. Mercer and being denied opportunities she felt fully qualified for.
“Good. Then meet me at the Royal Oak on Dormer Street as soon after seven as you can. And then we’ll see if you have the courage to leave your old life behind and become a painter, perhaps even an enameler.”
* * *
“I knew what you were up to, you know.” Julia’s whisper darted across the small space between her chair and Phoebe’s. “It felt like going to the bank in Little Barlow all over again.”
Phoebe felt duly chastised. Only weeks ago she had involved Julia in a scheme to help one of Little Barlow’s local farmers save his orchard. However, she had neglected to explain her plan to Julia, in effect using her sister’s position as a viscountess to persuade the owner of the bank to take them seriously.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered back out of the side of her mouth.
They were still in Mr. Tremaine’s office, and Julia had yet to sign her name to the contract that would bind them in an agreement for a china service from Crown Lily. Mr. Tremaine and Percy Bateman had retreated to the leather couch that sat against one wall. They were ironing out a few details between themselves about production schedules and timing, and speaking in equally hushed tones.
Julia shot Phoebe an incriminating look. “You might have trusted me beforehand rather than let me figure it out for myself.”
“I wanted you to act naturally, which you did. I was afraid your anger at me for tossing a cog in your plans wouldn’t be believable, otherwise.” Phoebe grinned. “You were splendid, by the way.”
Julia relented and returned her grin. “Thank you. I pride myself that I might have been an actress under vastly different circumstances.” She tipped her chin up, showing Phoebe her aristocratic profile. “But what exactly was the purpose of your little ruse?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as the forms are signed and we’re on our way back to Lyndale Park.”
“Does it have anything to do with Eva making herself scarce?”
Phoebe smiled and nodded. At the same time, she wondered what, if anything, Eva had learned about Moira Wickham. The woman had ambitions to become a designer. Perhaps she had the pattern book.
Mr. Tremaine and Percy Bateman rose from the sofa and returned to the desk. Mr. Tremaine sat; Mr. Bateman remained standing, his face alight with a beaming smile.
“Now, then.” Mr. Tremaine pushed several sheaves of paper across the desk to Julia.
Julia didn’t glance at the paperwork. “You can promise delivery by February first?”
“I can, my lady. It says so right there.” He pointed to the first page of the documents.
With a raised eyebrow Julia leaned to read, and Phoebe, likewise, pressed forward to peruse the contract. Her signature might not be needed, but she nonetheless wished to understand the terms of their commission. It took them several minutes, and then Julia turned her head to meet Phoebe’s gaze. Her expression clearly asked if Phoebe found the terms and conditions satisfactory, and Phoebe nodded. Secretly, she found that small act on Julia’s part heartening—her sister had cared to seek her opinion, even if silently. Julia took up the fountain pen Mr. Tremaine had provided and emblazoned her swooping signature on the bottom of the last page.
“That’s it, then.” She came to her feet, and Phoebe rose beside her. Julia extended her hand across the desk. “Thank you, Mr. Tremaine.”
He hesitated before clasping it, taken aback, perhaps, by the familiarity. “It’s been my pleasure, Lady Annondale.”
“And thank you, Mr. Bateman. Without your design I don’t know if my siblings and I ever would have agreed on anything. You apparently knew what we wanted before we did.” Julia offered her hand to him as well. He took it and pumped it several times before apparently realizing he was taking a liberty, whereupon he promptly released her.
Phoebe also shook hands with both men and thanked them. They were helped on with their coats, and prepared to leave. “Come, Hetta,” Julia said unnecessarily, as Hetta had already moved to the door. “Time to go home.”
“Home?” Phoebe asked as they stepped outside. Her stomach sank at the thought. She wasn’t ready to leave—not until they’d cleared Trent of murder, or discovered the police had the guilty party all along. Phoebe desperately hoped not, as much for Fox’s sake as for Trent’s. “As in Little Barlow?”
“No, goose.” Julia grinned. “As in Lyndale Park. If it’s all the same to the rest of you, I’m going to call Grams and Grampapa and tell them we’ve decided to extend our stay. I’m not at all ready to cry uncle and run away. Even if I don’t have a son, Lyndale Park is my second home, and my child’s rightful home, and my darling in-laws will simply have to learn to live with it.”
Once reunited with Eva, and the four of them were safely in the motorcar leaving Crown Lily, Phoebe filled Julia in on her hopes of tricking Percy Bateman into revealing that he had the missing pattern book. “I thought if I feigned interest in one of Ronald Mercer’s patterns,” she said as Fenton turned the Rolls-Royce onto the main road, “Mr. Bateman would wish to take credit for it. But either he doesn’t have Mr. Mercer’s pattern book, or he’s too clever to give himself away.”
“My guess, he’s too clever.” Julia gave her gloves a tug each. “Really, Phoebe, that was a rather transparent plan. Only a fool would have fallen for it. And, besides, once he saw that I favored the Cotswold landscape, he wasn’t about to defer to your wishes, was he?”
Phoebe didn’t reply. Julia was right, and indeed her remarks made her feel the fool. For a moment she doubted her ability to find a killer—doubted being clever enough or having a clear enough head. But then, her gaze connected with Eva’s, and with a steady nod Eva communicated her confidence in Phoebe, her belief that they would prevail. And that made Phoebe remember the two of them had done this before, and that Julia herself had benefited from their prowess.
Still, she said nothing to defend her actions regarding Mr. Bateman. He might not have admitted to anything today, and indeed he might not have anything to admit. But if he did, Phoebe would find a way to trap him into revealing his guilt.
A gleam in Eva’s eye also reminded her that her lady’s maid had been busy this afternoon, too. “Did you learn anything from Moira Wickham?” Phoebe asked her.
“Not yet.”
Julia made a noise of impatience and tossed her head. “And you won’t. The two of you are grasping at straws. I hope as much as you that Trent didn’t kill his father. As a mother-to-be, I find the notion of a child murdering a parent horrific. But if you’ll allow the police to do their jobs, they’ll find the truth.”
Phoebe gave her a significant look. Julia tossed her head again. “All right, sometimes the police get it wrong, and sometimes they’re slow to see the whole picture. But you two endangering yourselves is becoming wearisome for the rest of us.”
It wasn’t
until they reached Lyndale Park that Phoebe continued her discussion with Eva. She could see by Eva’s expression that despite not learning anything new from Miss Wickham, she nonetheless had more to say. Upon exiting the Rolls-Royce, she linked her arm through Eva’s and started them walking along the grounds.
“Aren’t you coming?” Julia stood framed in the open front door while Carmichael waited to take her coat. Hetta stood waiting as well, looking as though she wished nothing more than to bundle her mistress in a thick blanket before the fire and ply her with hot tea.
“Not yet,” Phoebe answered with a wave.
Julia pursed her lips, shook her head at them, and went into the house.
Eva didn’t waste a moment. “Can you spare me after I’ve readied you and Amelia for dinner? And may I make use of Douglas and the touring car?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Moira Wickham has invited me somewhere called the Royal Oak, in town, I presume. It’s on Dormer Street. We’re going to talk about my leaving service and becoming a painter at Crown Lily.”
Phoebe brought them to a sudden halt and turned to face Eva. “Good heavens, you’re not really thinking of doing that?” She found herself nearly shaking at the thought, her heart pounding and her stomach tying itself in knots. While she knew Eva would—and should—leave her someday, the notion of it happening this soon filled her with a sensation close to despair.
Eva had grasped both her gloved hands and gave reassuring squeezes. “Of course not! I merely led Miss Wickham to believe I wished to become a painter as an excuse to get to know her better and see if she’s hiding anything.”
“Of course.” For the second time that afternoon a sense of foolishness swept over Phoebe. “That was silly of me. It’s just that . . . well . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere, my lady, rest assured. Now, I agreed to join her just after seven o’clock. She wanted to meet right after work, but I wanted to be able to spend more time with her and not have to rush back here in time to help you dress for dinner.”
“You know, you really don’t need to help Amelia and me dress. We could manage.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t want to give Miss Wickham any reason to think my interest in changing situations is anything less than sincere. Better she believes I’m at your beck and call constantly, and that I’m slipping away on the sly until you need me at bedtime.”
“Good thinking. In fact, if anyone asks, tell them you and Douglas contrived to sneak into town,” Phoebe said, “you to meet with Miss Wickham, and Douglas to enjoy a few pints at the pub, perhaps play some rounds of darts. And if we’re lucky, he might be able to engage some Crown Lily workmen in conversation.”
“I’ll arrange it with Douglas.”
“Good. I’ll feel better knowing you didn’t go alone.”
“Actually, so will I, my lady.”
CHAPTER 8
The interior of the pub delivered on the promise of its stone and timber exterior: a several-centuries-old construction of ancient hardwoods, rough surfaces, low-beamed ceilings, and smoky gas lighting. Douglas had already entered and made his way over to the bar, crowded with flat-capped men several bodies deep. Eva wouldn’t go there; no woman did, as the bar and its immediate surrounds were male-only territory.
Riding above the odors of beer and perspiration, inviting aromas from the kitchen made her stomach rumble. She’d eaten lightly upon returning to Lyndale Park; since Miss Wickham had indicated they’d be having supper together, she’d wisely saved her appetite. She was glad she did, as the savory meals she saw in front of patrons put her in mind of her mother’s kitchen.
The noise of the place swarmed in her ears as dozens of conversations, laughter, and the shouting around the dartboards blended into one blurred roar. A waving hand caught her attention, and she made her way over to a table for two dimly illuminated by a sconce a few feet away. Moira Wickham grinned as Eva removed her coat, scraped back a chair, and sat. She was glad of the table’s positioning, which allowed her to see over to the bar and the dartboards with only a slight turn of her head. She wished to keep track of Douglas—should she have any need of him.
That thought surprised her. Surely, in a crowded place such as this, she had no reason to fear Moira Wickham, even if she had killed Ronald Mercer.
“Wasn’t entirely sure you’d come,” the woman said as Eva settled in. She lifted the pint in front of her as if to make a toast. “Thought you might lose your nerve.”
“You don’t know me. When I decide something, I act upon it.”
“Good for you.” Moira Wickham eyed her with an amused smile.
No doubt she was taking in the plain way Eva had pulled her hair back into a bun at her nape; her black broadcloth dress, her lack of jewelry. Eva wondered, was the other woman seeing an image of her own mother, and judging that image to be courageous or lacking in fortitude?
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering for us. Tonight is steak and kidney pie and potatoes with onions.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Eva meant it. Her stomach rumbled again. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the shadows, while the general roar faded into an almost soothing background noise. Eva might reside at Foxwood Hall and eat Mrs. Ellison’s fine fare, but she never forgot that folk such as these were her people, and places such as the Royal Oak were where her family felt most comfortable when they were away from home.
Miss Wickham raised her pint again. “Supper comes with a pot of tea, but do you want a pint as well? They’ve a good stout here.”
“No, thank you. Tea will be fine.”
Miss Wickham shrugged. “Suit yourself. They make a good strong brew as well.”
Eva darted a gaze around neighboring tables, pretending to be nervous. “You said we’d talk and see if I’ve got what it takes to leave service and change my life. Exactly how did you mean we’d do that?”
“If you’re asking if I’m going to have you draw something for me here, don’t worry, I won’t.” Miss Wickham laughed, a hornlike sound that startled Eva. “No, if you’ve the talent to paint, we’ll find it out later. For now, I want to see what kind of mettle you’re made of, Miss Huntford.”
The barmaid arrived at that moment and set down an earthenware teapot and two mugs. Though they were nothing fancy or costly, Eva was nonetheless impressed by the etching and colors worked into the clay.
“This is lovely.” She held up one of the mugs to better see it in the dim lighting. “For something used in a pub, it shows great skill and thought.”
“We’re in Staffordshire, Miss Huntford. The china and earthenware capital of England. We take great pride in what we do. Even I. Yes, I’d prefer to be doing more—designing, making decisions on what is produced at Crown Lily—but I also take my work in painting and enameling seriously. Very seriously, indeed. Because when things are done properly, strangers I might never meet will hold a cup as you’re doing now and admire the workmanship that went into it. And that, Miss Huntford, is as it should be.”
Eva found herself admiring not only the earthenware, but Miss Wickham. Whatever she might or might not have done, she held the work she and her colleagues did in high esteem. Yet, Eva couldn’t ignore one statement: Yes, I’d prefer to be doing more . . .
How strongly did that preference influence her sentiments, her actions, and her very life? Passion, Eva had learned, could produce great achievements, but also desperate acts. If Moira Wickham had believed Ronald Mercer to be a hindrance to the art she so obviously loved, could she have been driven to remove him and the obstacles he posed?
“My only doubt,” Eva began, fingering the grain of the tabletop in front of her, “is what you said about women being held back and not allowed to advance according to their talents.”
Moira Wickham harrumphed and curled her lips downward. “That is one of life’s great injustices. I am every bit as skilled as Ronald Mercer, Percy Bateman, or any other designer, but I’ll likely never be given the cha
nce to prove it.”
“And that must make you so angry.”
“Indeed, it does.” The woman drew back, scowling. “Why shouldn’t it?”
“Believe me, I’m very much on your side.” Eva leaned forward in a confiding manner. “I’m faced with a similar dilemma. Even if I’m someday promoted to housekeeper, I’d still be below the butler and paid less, not to mention respected less. And, whether lady’s maid or housekeeper, such a woman is expected to remain single during the whole of her career, whether or not she is lucky enough to find an available man. It might not seem as consequential as the hurdles you face, but for someone who devotes her life to service, it’s rather short shrift.”
“Short shrift is what we women get.” Miss Wickham might have added more, but she fell silent when the barmaid returned with a tray laden with their pasties and potatoes. The rich aromas once again stirred Eva’s appetite, and she took several moments to simply savor a bite of each portion.
“Oh, Miss Wickham, you choose your eateries well.”
“I’ll bet your high and mighty Renshaws never eat so fine or so heartily.”
It was on Eva’s tongue to admonish the woman not to speak ill of her employers. But on one hand, she didn’t wish to put Miss Wickham off, and on the other hand, she was right. The Renshaws only rarely had the opportunity to eat food such as this. Eva would take a hearty farmer’s meal over French delicacies any day of the week.
But that was beside the point.
Holding a morsel of beef dripping with gravy on her fork, Eva forestalled bringing it to her mouth. She raised her eyebrows, leaned forward again, and spoke barely above a whisper. “Now that Mr. Mercer is gone, might new opportunities arise for you?”
Miss Wickham didn’t answer right away. She slowly chewed, her broad cheeks working, her slight frown drifting to a point somewhere over Eva’s shoulder. Then she brought her gaze close again to connect with Eva’s. “I’ve been pondering that very possibility. It’s not that I wished ill on the man. Certainly, I’d never do that, not to anyone. But what’s done is done, and since there’s no going back, why not surge forward and take fate by the reins.” She suddenly did something that seemed so out of character Eva was taken aback. Miss Wickham hunched her shoulders and giggled like a schoolgirl who just realized the boy she’d set her cap for liked her back.
A Sinister Service Page 10