by Abigail Agar
“Miss Philips has done nothing but take care of me,” Lord Beckman insisted, defending her.
Lavender was relieved that he believed her, grateful that he would have a care for her and be willing to do so.
“What evidence do you claim to have against me?” Lavender asked, knowing that they would have to have something more if they were going to arrest her. They could not possibly have come here with so little.
“We have been alerted to the medicines kept in your room and have looked closely at the one given to Lord Beckman. It has been confirmed that you were not giving him medicine,” the constable said.
“Of course I was giving him medicine. That is what those tinctures are,” Lavender said.
“Aside from the one made with a heavy dose of arsenic,” the constable said.
Lavender froze. Arsenic? She had no arsenic in her belongings. That was senseless. Her father had always warned her not to follow the popular trend that so many women had adopted in which they took a small amount of arsenic each day to maintain their pale complexions.
Her father had warned her that such a thing would eventually kill her if she were to try it. He had made her promise that she would never allow vanity to grip her in such a way, and Lavender had maintained her promise.
She had no arsenic among her cosmetics or her medicines. This was a ridiculous accusation.
“I do not use arsenic, and it is in none of my medications,” she said.
“Miss Philips, it has been confirmed. One of our constables searched your room already and confiscated the medicines. Our men examined them, and it was determined that this accusation was true,” he said.
Lavender looked at Lord Beckman. Betrayal was evident in his face. She could see that he was a blend of disbelief and rage. Whatever he wanted to believe, whatever he hoped for, it was clear that he had heard these words.
He had understood that this was genuine evidence, that there was no doubt in the minds of the constables that Lavender was a murderess who had tried to kill him.
“Lord Beckman, you must believe me. I did not do this. There has been a mistake,” she promised.
“You were upset. You behaved as if you were guilty of something,” he said. “I do not wish to believe it. It is not possible. And yet …”
“I felt guilty because you were not recovering under my watch. Because it was not until Lady Foster insisted we stop the medication that you were finally made well. But I did not harm you. I would never harm you,” Lavender said, hoping that he would truly hear her and know that she was telling him the truth.
What did she have to say? How could she make him realize that she had done none of this? There was no way for her to convince him when the evidence was there before his eyes.
“Please,” she begged him, hoping that her plea for him to believe her would be heard.
“I trusted you,” Lord Beckman said.
“I did none of this. I promise you. Please, you must believe me. I do not know where this arsenic came from, but it was not from me,” she said.
“Have you spoken to the doctor?” Ronan asked the constables.
“Yes. We have been compiling the evidence throughout the day. The doctor confirmed that your symptoms were consistent with arsenic poisoning and that the bottle in which we found the arsenic was the same bottle from which Miss Philips had medicated you,” he said.
And there it was, the final piece of the puzzle. There was no reason at all for Lord Beckman to believe Lavender now. Why should he think anything of what she had to say? There was evidence only that she had been the one to poison him and that she had tried to kill him.
“It is our belief that, as Miss Philips knew how to administer the doses to you in her own way, she gave you enough to draw out your suffering. She gave you more than an acceptable amount each day, but not enough to kill you immediately. The doctor believes that it is your strength and relative health that saved your life and enabled you to recover quickly,” he continued.
Lavender had heard enough. She didn’t want to know any more. None of this could possibly be happening. It was impossible. She had not done these things of which she was being accused.
But when she looked again at Lord Beckman, Lavender saw that he believed the constables’ words. He trusted them and had heard the evidence, believing it to be the truth.
“Now, we must take you to the precinct,” the constable said again to Lavender.
She wanted to protest, to declare her innocence. She wanted to beg them to leave her alone, to let her go free.
But Lavender knew how this was going to play out. She understood that there was no reason at all for the men to listen to her. And beyond that, there was something a great deal more painful for Lavender to contend with.
Lord Beckman did not believe her. There could be no solace when he did not trust her to tell the truth.
Lavender was heartbroken, knowing that she was not to be believed. It saddened her to know how fragile the trust of Lord Beckman was.
In truth, however, she ought to have expected it. Why would she think anything different? Aside from a few moments in which she felt a connection, there was no precedent for a young woman such as herself to care for her master.
He was a marquess, she was a maid. Anything between them would have been nonsense. It was foolishness.
And yet, as the constables worked to take her away, she wanted to fight them. She wanted to resist in every capacity she could.
And he did nothing. Lord Beckman did not stand firm in her defence. After that brief moment in which he had claimed that she was innocent, he had believed every word against her. He had been convinced by the evidence, evidence she had nothing to do with.
How had the arsenic ended up in her belongings? Why was the doctor against her somehow? Had he switched their medications?
It did not make sense. He would never do something like that. The doctor respected Lavender and her father. Any such behaviour from him was incomprehensible.
But, although she understood that it was too late, that there was nothing she could do to convince Lord Beckman of her innocence, she paused.
“I do not know what you think of me at this moment, but I promise you that I am not the woman they are claiming. I had nothing to do with your illness. I gave you medicine based on what I believed I had in my possession. There is nothing I would ever do to hurt you; you must know that,” she said.
“Did you or did you not give me medicine that had arsenic in it?” Lord Beckman asked.
She stuttered, still hurt and taken aback by his harsh insistence.
“I gave you what I believed to be the correct medicine. I would never have given you anything if I was not absolutely certain that it would help you. I could not have known that this medicine was different from what I had offered,” she said.
“But you are a woman known for her skills in medicine. If there was anyone who ought to have known, it was you. This was, after all, your medicine, was it not? Should you not have been able to distinguish, to decipher, that it was no longer the correct thing?” Lord Beckman asked.
Guilt shrouded Lavender. The same familiar guilt as she had that morning when he had suddenly, miraculously, felt better after she ceased to give him the medicine that she had believed would cure him.
Lavender had failed the man she loved. She had given him the wrong thing to treat him and had only ended up causing him harm. She had made a grievous error, and there was nothing she could do to make up for it now. He was already too far gone from her, not believing that she had any pure intentions in her heart.
Lord Beckman would never trust her again; of that, Lavender was certain. She had lost the thing that meant most to her. Once more, she was alone.
“You must know that I would not do this,” she said again, one final attempt to plead with him, to help him see reason.
“Miss Philips, there is nothing more for me to say to you,” he replied.
With that, she could do nothing more e
ither. Lavender allowed the constables to take her away.
Chapter 35
Ronan sat in the parlour with his mother and Harold, each of them in complete and utter shock. It was not possible. And yet, all of the evidence pointed to it.
He could see that his mother did not want to believe it. He did not want to believe it either. They had trusted Miss Philips. There had been no reason not to.
After all, she had been such a sweet young woman. She had been the kindest, most lovely maid that they had ever had in the estate.
Ronan had fallen in love with her. There was no doubting that. And yet, even though he loved her and his feelings could be determined as nothing more than his heart, his mother cared for her as well.
“I cannot accept this. It is simply impossible. There is no reason for which Miss Philips would have done this. You and I both know it well,” his mother insisted.
“Mother, they have a significant amount of evidence,” Ronan said.
“And what of it? Are you telling me that you actually believe all of this nonsense? Oh, good heavens. It is far too ridiculous for me to believe. Harold, please talk some sense into this boy, for I am at a loss,” his mother said.
Harold simply looked at Ronan, raising an eyebrow in warning.
Ronan listened to what his mother had to say, grateful that she stood in his defence of Miss Philips. And yet, he had not defended her. He was grateful to hear someone else do it, but Ronan felt like a fool if he tried.
Was he a fool? Had he been taken in by her? Was it possible that he only wanted her to be innocent because of his love?
The very idea of it overwhelmed him with the possibility. If, indeed, Ronan was foolish enough to believe that, there was something wrong.
“I know that it is not something we want to consider, but we must acknowledge that it is possible,” Ronan finally said.
“What is possible? That there has been a great deal of confusion? Yes, indeed. That is possible. But only that. There is nothing more, nothing about these accusations which could possibly be true,” his mother continued.
“Please, Mother. You must understand that the constables would not have arrested her unless there was some sort of evidence,” Ronan said.
“Evidence from whom?” his mother asked.
That was a very good question. Who had told the constables about all of this? Was it one of the other maids? Was it possible that there was jealousy or animosity between them because Miss Philips received so much more attention?
Whoever had caused all of this, it was someone who wanted everyone to believe that Miss Philips was a bad woman. Of course, Ronan did not think he could actually go so far as to believe that.
Harold and his mother did not think it was possible either. Knowing that, Ronan wanted to trust such an instinct. He did not want to allow his own pride and his pain to get the better of him. He wanted to believe along with them.
But just as he was trying to come to terms with all this and decide what he believed, the parlour door opened, and one of the maids entered.
“My Lord? Miss Ste—Mrs Booth, I mean. She is here to speak with you,” the maid said.
There she was, Mrs Booth, coming through the door. He had not seen her since the wedding but was glad that she had arrived now.
No one in the estate knew Miss Philips as well as Mrs Booth did. They were the dearest of friends, were they not?
At least she would be able to shed some light on all of this and why Miss Philips would do such a thing.
“My dear, how nice to see you. It is rather a poor time for a visit, but I should like to hear all about your happiness within marriage,” his mother told her, a grin upon her face.
“Yes, thank you, Lady Beckman. But, for the moment, I am here under a rather different precedent,” Mrs Booth said.
“Oh?” his mother asked.
“Indeed. This is in regards to Miss Philips and the accusations that have been made against her,” she said.
“Yes, these are terrible accusations,” his mother said.
“Indeed, they are. And I have come to correct the issue, to make it clear,” Mrs Booth said.
Ronan was a blend of relief and surprise. If there was an explanation, he was happy to hear it. In fact, he was desperate to hear it. After all, if Mrs Booth could explain away the actions of Miss Philips, that was all he needed.
But if it were not even Miss Philips who had done it, at least he would never again have to worry. If she had been somehow set up to look as if she had done this, he had made a grave mistake in not sticking up for her.
Ronan understood that he had to hear Mrs Booth before making his decision, but he was already overwhelmed by guilt. If Miss Philips was not guilty, he had done a very bad thing. He had failed to protect her in the way that he should have.
Why had he not thought things through more? Had he not been more considerate of the sort of woman she was? There was no sense in thinking that she was capable of these types of actions. Had he fallen for this theory?
“Now, I understand that there is a very grave rumour, a belief that Miss Philips is responsible for what has happened in terms of Lord Beckman’s illness,” she said.
“Yes, there is. And with overwhelming evidence,” Ronan said before his mother or Harold could speak up.
When Ronan really thought about it at his core, he knew there was a reason for his back and forth on this matter. On the one hand, he did not wish to be taken for a fool. If Miss Philips was a villain of sorts, he wanted to prove that he had been willing to accept it from the start. He had not been weak enough to believe her when she was false.
However, he was also in love with her and trusted her due to that, even when it did not make sense to do so.
“Well, the rumour is false. Miss Philips did nothing of the sort,” Mrs Booth said. “I bring here a letter which I shall read aloud to you. It is from Miss Jane Gibbs.”
Mrs Booth cleared her throat before she began to read.
Dear Lord Beckman,
I hope this letter finds you well. You may not know me by name, but I have served you tea on occasion at the home of my mistress, Lady Foster.
I am writing this letter because I have heard of your recent plight, and I fear that I may have been a part of the ailment that overtook you. Although I had no intention of causing you any harm, I can see where my duties led me to an action that has since created a terrible ordeal.
My mistress, Lady Foster, takes a small amount of arsenic every few days in an effort to keep her complexion soft and milky. However, last week, she did send me to purchase a rather large amount. I was surprised, but I accepted the task as I was called to do it. When I returned home, Lady Foster was insistent in taking hold of the purchase.
Most of the time, she simply asks me to set it aside for her. But this was different. She was eager, very eager, to have the arsenic.
Having heard what happened to you this week and knowing how much Lady Foster detests your maid, I wished to let you know.
Please do not inform her of this letter or my name in providing you with any information.
Thank you,
Miss Jane Gibbs
Ronan gasped. His mother placed a hand upon her mouth. Harold simply shook his head, his shoulders sagging.