The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Beth nearly spoke to clarify her identity, but realising who this couple must be, decided to allow them to continue in their error. She cast a conspiratorial glance to the new secretary. “Thank you, Miss Jenkins. You may expect word tomorrow.” The girl nodded and turned to offer a departing smile before she walked down the long gravel drive to hire a cab back to her hotel.

  “This way,” Beth said, leading the couple into the smallest of the three drawing rooms, painted in rich reds and gold, and trimmed in creamy white. “Lord Haimsbury is delayed, I’m afraid. Would you mind waiting here until he arrives? May I offer you tea?”

  “Tea for my wife, but I’ll have coffee,” the man said curtly. handing Beth his hat along with the woman’s fur-trimmed cloak. Without a word, the duchess took the items and returned to the foyer, where she handed them to Lester, who had now appeared, a small canvas bag filled with chips of ice in his left hand.

  “I am sorry…” he began, but Beth signalled for him to remain silent.

  “Could you serve our guests tea and coffee? When Lord Haimsbury arrives, bring him to me in the library,” she whispered, and then left to read through the afternoon post.

  All this took place at quarter past four, and another quarter hour ticked by before Sinclair returned from Whitehall. “Afternoon, Lester. Have Lord Aubrey and Mr. Kepelheim arrived yet?”

  “I cannot say, sir,” the first footman replied, the ice bag still in his hand. “I’m to tell you that my lady awaits in the library, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lester. Headache?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sorry to hear it. You must take the afternoon and rest.”

  Entering the library, Sinclair found the duchess busy at her writing desk.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said happily. “I’ve had a rather strange day. You wouldn’t believe who paid me a visit at Whitehall.”

  Elizabeth rose and took his hand. “You needn’t worry about being late. Paul’s making use of your time. He and Mr. Kepelheim are working upstairs now. I don’t suppose your visitor brought his wife?”

  “What? No, why?”

  “Because the man now sitting in our drawing room brought his.”

  “Who might that be?” he asked, as she led him back into the long foyer, towards the front drawing room.

  The male visitor’s rose up in annoyance, filling the entire floor. Simultaneously, in the downstairs kitchen, the drawing room bell clanged over and over again. “Good heavens!” the man shouted. “Is there no butler in this house? Shabby way to run a London home!”

  Beth shrugged, and Charles, having recognised the voice, opened the door. Elizabeth entered first, but before she could speak the man began to rant.

  “My dear girl, your household is a shambles! Does the duchess approve of this sort of poor management? Not only does a mere girl greet us, but we’re left to ring for assistance without reply. This is intolerable! I shall speak to your employer, young woman. Where is Lord Haimsbury—oh, there you are,” he said, his manner altering completely as Sinclair followed Beth into the room. “Charles, my dear, dear son. It is so good to see you again.”

  The woman in the hat kissed Sinclair fondly. “Charles, we have so missed your visits! When we saw in the Gazette that you now reside here, well I said to Frederick that we simply must pay a call on our dear son-in-law.”

  Beth had correctly surmised the identities of the two in her parlour, and she remained quiet, standing demurely to one side, as if awaiting orders. Charles didn’t know whether to laugh or begin shouting, but following his fiancée’s lead, he offered Margaret Winstone a perfunctory peck on the cheek and his former father-in-law, Frederick Winstone, a firm, albeit less than enthusiastic handshake.

  “I believe we ordered tea, young woman,” Frederick said to Beth.

  She stood her ground, making no effort to respond or tend to his demands.

  “Are you deaf, girl? Will you leave your lord’s relatives seeking a simple cup of tea?”

  Just then, Stephens the underbutler and two young footmen entered, carrying trays laden with tea, coffee, fruit, finger sandwiches, and beautifully iced cakes on chased silver trays.

  Beth said nothing to the servants, but before Stephens left, he turned to her and bowed. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

  She shook her head. “No thank you, Stephens. Oh, and please tell Lester that he must take all the time he requires for that headache. I know how they plague him. Has Mr. Miles returned?”

  “Not yet, my lady. He promised to be back before six, though.”

  Stephens shut the doors, and Beth turned to smile sweetly at her guests. Frederick Winstone appeared to be in the middle of an apoplectic fit, and Margaret had turned into a pale, stone statue, her extraordinary feathered hat now skewed to one side.

  Charles kissed Beth on the cheek, taking her hand. “Allow me to introduce my fiancée, Elizabeth Stuart, soon to be Sinclair, Duchess of Branham. Beth, these are Amelia’s parents, Fred and Meg Winstone,” he said, deliberately shortening their Christian names, something he knew both found intolerable.

  “I am delighted to meet you both. Mr. Winstone, are you unwell?”

  The man cleared his throat and took a moment to find his voice, but he nodded. “Uh, yes, well. Forgive me, Your Grace, we clearly entered your beautiful home under a misunderstanding—ours certainly.”

  Beth patted the older man’s hand kindly, and Charles adored her for it. “No harm done, my dear Fred. None at all. Please, do sit, won’t you? You find our household in a rush of preparation, as you might imagine. And with another murder in the east, my fiancé keeps irregular hours.”

  Winstone showed surprise. “Charles, surely you are not continuing with police work! You are a titled lord, my boy! Does your time and station even permit remaining in your position with the Yard?”

  Charles was thoroughly enjoying this unexpected visit. “You’d be surprised at the number of titled men working at Scotland Yard, Fred.”

  “Perhaps, yes, but surely only in the highest tiers. Sir Charles Warren is still commissioner; I presume?”

  “No, Warren’s resigned,” Charles replied. “Monro’s taken over.”

  “Poor Sir Charles!” Beth added. “He took a great deal of political pounding, but politics is a cannibalistic enterprise, is it not? Where elder brothers consume those viewed as less fit, and younger siblings roust out the old? Charles, you mustn’t delay too long, darling. Paul and Mr. Kepelheim await upstairs.”

  Sinclair kissed her on the cheek. “So they do. Forgive me, Fred, Meg. Perhaps we might catch up another time. My tailor’s here to perform one last fitting, and my cousin, who will serve as best man, requires my attendance.”

  Margaret’s light grey eyes lit up. “Oh, Charles, would that be Lord Aubrey?”

  “The very same.”

  “He is quite a dashing young man!” she gushed. “Is it true that he and Cordelia Wychwright have become quite close?”

  “They are friends,” Sinclair answered, wondering just who might be spreading such rumours. “Nothing more than that.”

  “Oh,” Meg whispered. “I suppose I misunderstood Baroness Wychwright, then. She and I serve on the Mission School committee together. Do you think we might meet your cousin, Charles?”

  Beth answered for him. “I’m sure he’d be pleased to say hello. In fact, the earl should be down shortly, and I’m certain he’ll want to meet you both and hear all about your Mission School meeting. For now, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment? I must speak to my fiancé before he goes upstairs. I shan’t be long.”

  She walked out with Charles, and once they reached the staircase, he began to laugh for the first time in many days. “Oh, Beth! That was marvellous! Simply marvellous! Thank you so much, darling. Now, I can truly say I’ve seen the proud made humble. You played your part to perfection. Have I t
old you today how very much I love you?”

  She pulled him down and kissed his cheek. “Not since morning, but I am always, always glad to hear it, Captain. Did you speak with Commissioner Monro?”

  “I did, and he’s promised to consider my resignation, but he plans to confer with the Home Secretary first. It’s likely Matthews will try to keep me on, but he may consider himself well rid of me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He touched her waist. “And you’re still feeling all right?”

  “Much better. Dr. Emerson’s dietary suggestions have allowed me to eat at last. And now that everyone knows my condition, Mrs. Meyer and Mrs. Smith conspire to make sure I eat.”

  “It sounds as though you’re in good hands. Meyer and Smith make a formidable duo, and I like Emerson very much. We’ve a great deal in common, it seems. You being the most important—both of you.”

  She blushed, suddenly imagining herself as mother of his child. “We both love you,” she said. “I pray that all the anguish of the past week is over. Perhaps, with your resignation, our household will settle into a lovely sort of boredom.”

  He pulled her close, kissing her hair as he held her. “Boredom sounds wonderful.”

  “I hope you still say that six months hence,” she whispered. “Now, go see to your wedding clothes, soon-to-be husband!”

  His eyes lit up. “Call me that again—only without the soon-to-be part.”

  She rose up on tiptoe to whisper into his ear as he bent down. “I do love you, and I shall call you husband soon—for all the days of my life.”

  His entire face broke into a smile. “That is all I needed to hear; I am now energised for the task ahead.” And with that, Charles dashed up the curving staircase, two steps at a time, singing all the way.

  Beth turned around and headed back towards the drawing room to speak with the Winstones, but to her surprise, she noticed a white package with a large red bow sitting near the main entry.

  For days now, wedding gifts had been arriving, so she assumed this to be yet another delivery from one of the many social contacts or friends on Aunt Victoria’s guest list; or from the hundreds of others who had not yet received an invitation but hoped to be added at the last minute.

  The drawing room doors remained shut, so she walked past and knelt down to see what sender’s name might be on the label. There was none; only her name, written in red ink: Elizabeth Stuart Sinclair. The colour chilled her blood, but surely this was no message from the man calling himself ‘Saucy Jack’ for he never included her last name, and certainly not one she’d not yet claimed.

  The box, though wrapped in expensive paper, looked odd to Elizabeth. It had not been sealed, and the top was wrapped separately. It showed no evidence of having been opened by anyone else, nor did it bear a postmark. There was no return address.

  She nearly rang for a footman to fetch Sinclair, but Beth hated alarming him for what was probably just a silver platter or monogrammed teacup, so she retrieved the box from the floor and placed it on the foyer table. As she touched it, a small voice sounded a warning near the back of her mind. When was this delivered? No one had rung the bell, else Lester would have answered it. How then did it arrive? Perhaps, Miss Jenkins set it inside before she left, or the delivery person had knocked whilst she and Charles spoke with the Winstones.

  The Winstones! She had nearly forgotten them, so to put an end to the mystery, Elizabeth lifted the lid and found the surprise inside.

  Beth had never screamed so loudly in her entire life.

  The terrified wail pierced the air, and in seconds, every member of staff, Paul, Charles, Kepelheim, and even the Winstones rushed into the massive, four-storey foyer to find the duchess lying on the Roman tiles in a dead faint.

  Wearing only his wedding trousers and a silk shirt, Charles knelt at her side, patting her face, which was ice cold. Aubrey had finished his tailoring session and had dressed to leave for Whitehall. He stood beside the table, overlooking the mysterious box. His lean face had gone ashen. Kepelheim stepped forward and looked inside the box.

  “Good heavens!” the tailor exclaimed. “She saw this? Who would send this to her? This is madness!”

  Charles looked up at Paul. “What is it?” he demanded. “Another of those horrible notes?”

  The earl shook his head solemnly. “No, Charles. It is a human heart.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was early evening by the time Michael Emerson finished his visit with Elizabeth, and the young physician left the duchess to sleep whilst he washed up and took a much-earned tea break. Charles had been sitting in the library ever since Emerson’s arrival, and now that the house had calmed down—and his former in-laws finally left—his head had begun to clear enough to think.

  Right after the hideous heart had been discovered, Aubrey sent messages to their Uncle James, Galton, Reid, and France—the last at Charles’s insistence. He wanted a full meeting of as many inner circle members as possible. The earl then left, promising to return within a few hours, not saying where he planned to go.

  Emerson entered and closed the door.

  “Is she all right?” Sinclair asked, bracing himself for the worst.

  “Are all your days like this? Sorry, you await my news. Sit down, please,” the doctor said. “We are safely alone, I take it?”

  Charles nodded.

  “Good. May I lock the door?”

  Again the marquess nodded. “Michael, if you have bad news, please, just say it quickly.”

  Emerson took a seat. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. It is only I do not wish to be disturbed or overheard. Firstly, let me put your mind at ease. The duchess’s health has not been harmed by the ordeal. And neither has that of the child.”

  Charles began to weep softly, wiping at his eyes. “You’re certain that the shock of that—that hideous gift did not cause anything to go awry?”

  “The duchess is somewhat delicate physically, but her heart and will are mighty. Her reaction to that package is understandable. Even in the best of times, a woman—or even a man—might faint at such a sight, but as Elizabeth’s pregnancy progresses, she will display strong and perhaps unexpected, even inexplicable emotions. Her body is undergoing great changes, as I’m sure you can imagine. Also, she will be far more vulnerable to events such as occurred here today, so it would be best to protect her from such, which I’m sure you already endeavour to do.”

  “We do our best, however, Elizabeth is sometimes headstrong,” Charles told him.

  Emerson smiled. “Yes, I’ve seen evidence of that already. Your household appears to suffer violent episodes from time to time. Are these related to Redwing?”

  Sinclair considered his answer carefully. Emerson appeared to be a genuine believer and trustworthy, but dare he tell him everything? “Possibly,” he answered cryptically. “Forgive me for not being completely candid with you, Michael. As Beth’s doctor, you deserve full knowledge of anything that might threaten her health—and that of our baby,” he added, imagining himself as a father again. “This child will change everything.”

  “Yes, it very likely will, but I would speak to you of another, although related issue. Your Aunt Victoria accosted me outside Elizabeth’s apartment, before I could come down to see you, and asked if the duchess were in danger of miscarriage. She mentioned that Beth’s mother had trouble with child-bearing.”

  Charles looked puzzled. “Emerson, that makes no sense. Beth was the only child that Patricia carried.”

  “Not so. At least, according to the admirable Lady Victoria, it is not so. It seems that Patricia miscarried three times before Elizabeth was born. All three before six months, and all three sons.”

  “What?” he asked. “All three? All…sons? But, surely not because they were males. Can that be the cause? Is there some medical reason why a mother might succeed only in carrying dau
ghters?”

  Sitting back, the doctor thought for a moment. “None that I know of, but that does not preclude it. I asked if Patricia’s mother had difficulties, or if perhaps her grandmother had trouble carrying to term, and Lady Victoria referred me to Dr. Price. I shall call upon him tomorrow, but for now, I admit to being puzzled. I tell you this because I know how much you love the duchess. I can see it on your face anytime you say her name or see her enter a room.”

  “Thank you, Michael. May I see her?”

  “Yes, of course, and I shall set my mind to unravelling this mystery regarding the miscarriages.” Emerson moved towards the door, his medical bag in his left hand. “I’ve given Elizabeth a very small dose of a sleeping powder. It will not hurt the child, so don’t worry. Let her sleep until she awakens naturally, and that may be as late as tomorrow afternoon. She has a life inside her demanding resources and energies, making her a little more fragile than usual. I’m staying at my father’s house in Mayfair. Call on me anytime.”

  Charles watched him go, but Emerson’s tale of miscarried babies echoed in his mind like an unwelcome ghost. Climbing the stairs towards the master apartment, he began to imagine their family in a few years—one child, perhaps even two—but he knew each would be vulnerable to Redwing. Every new life brought fresh danger, but he must not think about that yet.

  He found Alicia sitting by her lady’s side, and the young woman curtsied and left, allowing Charles to take her place. Elizabeth lay beneath the velvet duvet, wearing a cream lace and royal blue satin night gown, her small hands resting upon the covers.

  “Beth,” he called, taking her hand. It felt warm, not icy like before. She lives. She breathes. “Beth, darling, can you hear me?”

  Her eyelids fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes. “Captain?” she said, her mouth dry from the sleeping draught. “What—why am I in bed?”

  “You’re in need of rest. That’s all, little one.” He laid his head on her shoulder, and she raised a hand to stroke his hair.