The Blood Is the Life

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The Blood Is the Life Page 17

by Sharon K Gilbert


  Charles smiled, thoughtfully. “I wish I could have met Beth’s father. Elizabeth inherited the Stuart eyes and hair.” He turned one over, looking for signs of a hallmark. “Dryden Photographic Portraiture, London,” he read aloud. “It’s dated April, 1872. It looks as if all these are of Beth, in fact. Taken at various moments in her childhood. Trent mentioned that he had such a collection of photographs. I’ve no doubt that he left them here for me to find.”

  “You spoke to him, sir? Does this means he’s in prison?” Alcorn asked, hopefully.

  “Sadly, he is not,” Sinclair answered. He paused for a moment. “Mr. Baxter, do you recall the night we returned here from Scotland? The twenty-fourth of October.”

  “Certainly, my lord. Twas an exciting day for all of us at the hall, when your company arrived back safely. Why do you ask, sir?”

  “That first night was spent relaxing before the fire in the main drawing room. The very same room where Lord Aubrey lay near death, actually, but that night was filled with life and laughter, rather than worry and fear. As we enjoyed Mrs. Stephens’s refreshments, Elizabeth shared hundreds of photographs with us, from various moments of her life—most of them taken by her father. I saw none with this hallmark upon them. None.” Charles paused, shutting his eyes as though weighing his thoughts. “Baxter, I know that you and Alcorn loved the late duchess, but I’m afraid I have some very troubling news for you. It pertains to an unposted letter I discovered in Connor Stuart’s bedroom whilst at the castle. It was written to Patricia, and its contents revealed that she was less than faithful to my cousin.”

  Baxter took a deep breath. “Shall I, Mrs. Alcorn?”

  The housekeeper shut the Bible. “Perhaps, this would be a good time to return to the kitchen and tuck into those biscuits, Mr. Baxter.”

  “Yes, I believe you are right, Mrs. Alcorn. Shall we, sir?”

  “Certainly. I’ve seen enough for now, but I want to come back here when the duchess and I return at Christmas.”

  Alcorn followed alongside the butler. “Mr. Baxter, as the marquess will no doubt have more questions, perhaps, you might see if there’s a cask of Danflou in the cellars—with your permission, my lord,” she said, looking to Sinclair.

  “Why ask me? The cellar and its contents belong to my fiancée,” he said as the trio left the apartment.

  Baxter blew out the sconce candles and then locked the primary door before handing the key to Alcorn. “I’ll bring up those vermin traps tomorrow,” he muttered to himself, his mind on the mice. “My lord, all the wines and other spirits will become yours in just over a week’s time. As my lady’s husband, you will have control of the entire Branham estate.”

  “Not true, Baxter. The laws have changed regarding husband’s rights,” he said as they headed towards the double doors that separated the strangely angled wing from the main portion of the mansion. “The Married Women’s Act of 1882 changed all that. No longer does a woman lose her legal identity when she marries. A wife now retains control of her property, though some husbands willfully neglect that law.”

  “So I understand, sir, but the little duchess spoke to Alcorn and myself before departing for London last Sunday. She insists that all on staff consider you the new lord of the manor. As such, the cellars are in your control.”

  “Really?” he asked, his dark brows rising high. “Then, I think we should make sure the Danflou has not soured, don’t you, Mr. Baxter? And whilst we wait for the decanting process to accomplish its good work, we’ll finish examining Trent’s box of secrets.”

  Chapter Ten

  9:26 pm - Queen Anne House

  “Shall we play telephone?” Delia Wychwright asked as she nibbled on a watercress sandwich.

  The Cartringham ladies, accompanied by Lord Cartringham and Delia’s parents, Baron and Baroness Wychwright, had arrived at half past eight. As promised by Victoria Stuart, Maisie Churchill, a widow of ten years, had brought along her great-nephew Winston, whose parents were out of the country visiting Lady Randolph Spencer-Churchill’s father, American financier Leonard Jerome, in New York.

  “What is telephone?” young Winston asked. “Is it like Dr. Bell’s device?”

  Delia Wychwright set down the remains of the small sandwich and daintily wiped her hands on a lace-trimmed, linen serviette. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, for Delia cared little for inventions and science, “but it’s rather fun, if not entirely scandalous! Everyone’s playing it in the city; or so, I’m told. My friend Tamsin Callgerton taught me how to play it last weekend whilst we were at her cousin’s home in Kent. Lord Aubrey, you and your family were in Kent at that same time, I’m told. Pity we couldn’t have gotten together.”

  Lady Cartringham cast her cousin a sharp look. “Just what is this game, Cordelia Jane?” she asked, using the girl’s full name as a reminder to behave more like a lady.

  Ignoring the subtle remonstrance, the determined ingénue leaned towards the younger members of their company. “It’s also called Lover’s Line, you know, which is probably why my cousin is rather annoyed at my suggesting it,” she whispered, causing Adele to burst into laughter.

  “Lover’s Line!” the younger girl exclaimed, looking at her brother. “Oh, I know all about that game, and I’d already arranged for us to play it. I told Paul about it—or at least, I think I did. Did I tell you, brother mine?”

  The earl sat beside Elizabeth on a very small settee, which allowed no room for Delia Wychwright, who had done her best to move ever closer to his side. “Did you?” he asked. “If so, then I’m far too old and ignorant to have remembered it. And aren’t you all a bit young to be playing a game called ‘Lover’s Line’, Della?”

  Wychwright objected. “Not at all, Lord Aubrey! It is never too early for a young maiden to learn the ways of romance and all its lovely mysteries. Juliet wed her Romeo at thirteen.”

  Winston shrugged at this. “I’m not sure that exemplar supports your argument, Lady Cordelia. Juliet’s marriage ended rather badly. Aren’t there any other games we could play, Lord Aubrey? A board game like Hare and Hounds? Fox and Geese? Mansion of Happiness? Why not a game of chess? I’m quite good at that, you know. This telephone game sounds quite dull to me.”

  The twelve-year-old’s Great Aunt Maisie had been going through last minute details for the upcoming wedding with Victoria Stuart, and she looked up over her gold spectacles. “I imagine you will find such a game very interesting one day, Winny. However, if you don’t wish to play with the girls, then perhaps you could help us decide where to place our guests at table. We’ve five hundred to seat and many of the men are currently at loggerheads in Parliament. It’s a bit of a game in itself.”

  Master Spencer-Churchill shook his head, the light-coloured locks shining in the chandelier’s glow. “That doesn’t sound fun at all, Auntie,” he objected. “I should prefer the company of girls to making long lists of boring old party details.”

  Aubrey laughed. “The company of girls will have great allure for you one day, Winston. If you’re interested in learning about politics, perhaps you could accompany me to Egypt or even Bolivia, when you’re older.”

  The young nobleman stood. “I should very much like to explore Africa with you, Lord Aubrey. My mother says there are people living there who haven’t the foggiest idea where England is. I’d like to tell them.”

  “Then you shall,” the earl promised. “Della, as you’re an expert, tell us how to play this game. To start, why is it called by two names?”

  Delia Wychwright interrupted. “I suppose its name depends on who refers to the game, Paul,” she said, instantly wishing she’d not used his Christian name, for her cousin Margaret shot her an angry glance. “Do forgive me. I meant Lord Aubrey, of course.”

  Stuart squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Darling, shall we play this game?” he asked her.

  B
eth smiled brightly. Despite her fears for Sinclair, the unabashed exuberance of youth inside the mansion brought colour to her pale cheeks and lightened her heart. “I think we must,” she told him. “How do we play, Della? What are the rules?”

  The earl’s daughter—raised as his sister—picked up a sheet of linen paper and began to sketch a simple diagram. “It’s like this,” she explained. “On each end of a line is a tin can. I’d hoped we’d play, and I asked Mrs. Smith to wash out two of sufficient size for our use. Oh, and dear Mr. Frame filed down the edges to make sure there is nothing sharp, and he’s punched a hole in each with his awl. Very clever, our Mr. Frame. He was also quite obliging, as he even volunteered to attach the string for me.”

  “Quite obliging,” the earl agreed, winking at the duchess.

  Della showed the diagram to her brother. “It’s very simple, actually. A cotton string connects the two cans, and each person holds one end of the device to his ear or mouth. One person talks whilst the other listens.”

  “Very scientific,” the duchess observed. “And then what? Is that the entire game?”

  “Oh no!” Cordelia Wychwright interrupted once more, brazenly sitting upon the arm of the settee to be close to Aubrey. “Then the fun begins. The speaker writes down a phrase. It could be the title of a book, line from a poem, whatever he likes, and then hands it to the judge. The listener must leave the room, taking the other end of the Lover’s Line, or telephone, with her—or him, of course,” she added, smiling coquettishly at Aubrey. “The speaker must convey the phrase to the listener to achieve a score, starting in a whisper and speaking more loudly with each attempt. After four tries, a judge calls time, and the listener is brought back into the room by the conductor. She or he—the listener, I mean—is then asked to tell everyone what he or she heard. If the answer is correct, points are awarded. Ten for the whisper, five for the next loudest try, then two and half, and only one point, if heard on the fourth attempt. The judge has the final say, if arbitration is required. At the end of the game, the tallies for the couples are made. The overall winner gets a prize.”

  “What prize is that?” the earl asked, dreading the response.

  Adele laughed. “It’s a kiss, silly! That’s why it’s called Lover’s Line, dearest brother! The winner may ask for a kiss from anyone he or she wishes. Of course, the person doing the kissing is usually the one on the other end of the line. It’s quite fun. We played it at Violet Aiken’s home last June.”

  “Did you, indeed? I really should spend more time at home,” the earl said. “Very well, then. Let’s play. Do we draw lots to choose up our teams?”

  “No, you pick a number ‘twixt one and one hundred. You write it down, and whoever comes closest to your number is your partner.”

  “No nought?” he asked, teasingly.

  Lady Adele glared at her brother. “No. There is no nought. It is not a true number, but a placeholder. Ask Cousin Charles. Do you plan to play by the rules or not, brother mine?”

  “I do. Forgive me, sister mine. Give us a scrap of paper and a pencil. The duchess and I shall choose our numbers.”

  “But you mustn’t peek,” Cordelia warned him. “You must play by the rules, if you’re to win your kiss, Lord Aubrey. And be sure to write your name on the paper, so we may know who our partner’s to be.”

  Victoria Stuart bit her lower lip to keep from laughing, and even Samson the dog seemed to have trouble ignoring Wychwright’s overt flirtations. He’d started circling the audacious guest, growling now and then, pawing at her skirts and standing on his hind legs in an effort to gain her attention.

  “Samson, come!” Victoria called, causing the animal to rush back to her side. “James, are you playing?” she asked her brother.

  Drummond sat near Martin Kepelheim, and the two men had been commenting on the lord mayor’s procession, intentionally avoiding all talk about the latest Ripper murder. “I think I’m a bit too old for parlour games, Tory. Perhaps you should play.”

  “I prefer making boring old lists of party guests,” she teased, glancing at Winston.

  Beth and Paul scribbled their numbers, as did most everyone else in the room. Even Sir Thomas Galton and Malcolm Risling joined in the play. Both circle members sat near the duke’s chair, their numbers in hand.

  Adele folded her choice and then glanced up. “Has everyone finished? You should all have a number written on your paper that lies ‘twixt one and a hundred. No noughts,” she added, her blue eyes fixed on her brother’s face.

  Wychwright raised her hand. “Who will act as judge?”

  The duke volunteered. “Martin and I shall serve as empanelled judges. Will that serve your needs, Lady Adele?”

  “It serves quite well,” the youngest Stuart answered, bobbing up from her chair and collecting everyone’s paper. “Here, Uncle James. You read them out.”

  The duke passed the papers to Kepelheim. “My fellow judge has younger eyes than mine. He’ll have the honour.”

  The tailor took the basket of numbered slips. “Oh, my, such a responsibility! Lord Haimsbury will be very sorry that he’s missed all the fun. Very well. I shan’t delay longer. The first name is our young Harrow student. Master Winston has chosen the number twenty-one. A fine choice, I think. Here, Your Grace,” he told the duke, handing him a clean sheet of cream paper and a pencil. “You keep the list as I read it out.”

  “A fine job for me,” Drummond jibed. “Winny, you’re twenty-one. Next.”

  “Delia has given us forty-nine. Seven squared. Another fine number,” Martin continued. “Let’s see now, who is next? Lady Cartringham has written the number nought. Very droll, my dear,” he told the countess. “I wonder, does this mean you won’t be allowed to play?”

  “I do hope so,” the countess admitted with a smile.

  “We’ll see how our judge decides,” Martin replied, grinning. “Lord Aubrey has given us the number fifty-two,” he continued. “Quite close to Lady Cordelia’s, isn’t it?”

  Wychwright could scarcely contain her enthusiasm, and she reached absentmindedly for a chocolate petit fours filled with thin layers of raspberry jam.

  “Adele Marie is next,” Kepelheim continued. “Our lovely Scottish lady has chosen twenty-six. Quite close to Master Winston. Well done, my dear. Sir Thomas has given us forty-seven. Lady Cordelia, you may be showing our handsome baronet how to play the game,” Kepelheim told her, much to Wychwright’s dismay. “Now, Lord Malcolm is our next contender, and Pembury’s dear son has chosen thirty-nine. Baron Wychwright gives us a very reasonable number. Ten. Sensible and to the point. His dear wife, Baroness Wychwright gives us ninety-four. Rather a large disparity there, it seems, but perhaps it is to be expected from two such enlightened individuals.”

  The duke laughed. “Baron, does your good lady also dispute your opinions with regard to Parliament?”

  “Only the bad ones,” Wychwright answered amiably, taking a sip of whisky. “Good this, Duke. Might there be any more about?”

  “We’ll get the youngsters started with their game, and then you and I shall nip off to my granddaughter’s cellars and see if we might find some.”

  “You must take this seriously, Uncle James,” Adele chided. “You are the head judge, and you must set the example. There’s only Beth left, and then, you must tell us our assignments.”

  The tailor opened the final slip of paper, offering the duchess a knowing smile. “It seems that we have saved the best until last. Our beautiful hostess has chosen the number... Well, this is quite extraordinary! The duchess has written fifty-two. The very same number as the earl. Blood will always tell, I suppose.”

  Aubrey sighed in relief, looking at Elizabeth. “I suppose it will,” he said, smiling. “All right, then, Della. Who goes first?”

  Cordelia Wychwright fought back tears as she reached for the last of the chocolate ganache petit fours cakes. �
�Are we playing elimination?” she asked suddenly. “If a partnership fails to score any points, then each member must be reassigned.”

  Adele looked at their guest, her light blue eyes round. “I don’t recall that rule.”

  “It is new,” Delia replied quickly, for she’d only just invented it. “I suppose the earl and duchess should get us started. Where is the telephone?”

  Della had hidden the device in a willow sewing basket, set behind the drawing room door, and she now retrieved it. She handed one end to her brother. “Will you speak or listen?” she asked.

  “I’ll do whichever Beth wishes.”

  “I shall listen,” the duchess told the assembled players. “Does the earl write down the message?”

  “Yes, but only after you leave the room,” Della explained seriously. “The telephone has plenty of line. I think Mr. Frame said we have three hundred feet, so you should be able to go across to the morning room, or even the library. Be careful when walking with it, Cousin Beth. Keep the string wrapped about the little dowel as you go; else it will knot.”

  “Rather like a kite string,” Beth said, kissing Della as she took the string and second tin can. “All right, I’m on my way. Paul, do speak clearly. We wouldn’t want to lose now, would we?” she asked him, offering a conspiratorial smile.

  “Absolutely not!” the earl replied honestly. He took a bit of paper from his sister and quickly wrote down four words: I love you, Princess; and then without allowing anyone else to see it, he handed the short message to the duke. “Where am I to stand?” he asked Adele.

  “You must remain in here,” she declared. “That way, we are certain you do not cheat.”

  “Would I do such a thing?” he asked, his dimples deepening within the dark beard as he smiled. The string grew ever more taut as the duchess moved farther and farther along the foyer, towards the rear of the great mansion. Eventually, it grew quite tight, and Adele glanced into the foyer to make sure the duchess was nowhere in sight.

 

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