The Curious Case of Lady Latimer's Shoes: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novel

by Stephanie Laurens

  The arrival of the Latimers together with the Galbraiths, Lord and Lady Latimer walking slowly up the aisle on either side of Lord Galbraith, caused what in any other situation would have been a sensation. But as the members of both families followed their elders up the aisle, Hartley, pale and drawn, with Cynthia on his arm, followed by Georgina and Lord Fitzforsythe supporting Geraldine, Cecilia and Brandywell supporting Primrose, with Millicent and Monica, arms twined, heads bowed together, quietly bringing up the rear, the incipient speculation transmogrified into approving murmurs.

  Alert to the nuances, Penelope spent much of the short service reading the expressions, and where possible the lips, of those she knew to be the biggest gossipmongers among the crowd. There had been a decent turnout, and those who actually knew the family greatly outnumbered those who had merely come to gawp and say they had attended the funeral of a three-day celebrity.

  Eventually satisfied that the overall impression later conveyed to the wider ton would be one of a reconciliation to be approved of and quietly applauded—and of a service that was otherwise unremarkable and in understated good taste—Penelope relaxed and allowed herself to be swept up in the singing of the hymns.

  Later, after they had traveled in their carriage in slow procession to Kensal Green, she stood with the others on the fringes of the mourners and watched the final laying to rest of Marjorie, Lady Galbraith. The crowd was smaller, perhaps a hundred strong; Penelope recognized several faces from the Fairchilds’ ball, Lady Howatch among them.

  Monica, the veil she’d worn in the church put back for the final farewell, looked utterly wretched but had thus far borne up. Millicent stood beside her, her arm wound in Monica’s; Monica leaned on Millicent, who stood staunchly beside her throughout, occasionally dipping her head to murmur something soothing. Or perhaps distracting. Deeming Monica in capable hands, Penelope considered the rest of the Galbraiths. As in the church, all were supported by their Latimer counterparts.

  Then the coffin was lowered, the last prayer said, and the benediction offered.

  At the minister’s invitation, Lord Galbraith, moving stiffly, bent and cast the first sod. Then, with a quiet word and a wave, he invited Lady Latimer to the graveside.

  Garbed in unrelieved black, her veil put back, Hester Latimer stepped forward and cast her own sod. In that moment, her customary mask was not in place; her sorrow and sadness were there for all to see as she farewelled her childhood friend. None could doubt the sincerity of what, in that instant, was revealed, and in the face of one who was usually so rigidly reserved, the naked emotion was all the more powerful.

  What followed as Galbraiths, then Latimers, stepped forward in turn, was deeply moving.

  Behind her glasses, Penelope blinked several times; she noticed Lady Howatch wielding a lace-trimmed handkerchief.

  And then it was done. It was time for the living to get on with their lives, and for the dead to be left in peace.

  Lady Latimer’s bosom swelled as she drew in a deep breath, then, raising her head, she turned to her family—not just her own but the Galbraiths as well—and like the matriarch she was, she gathered them up, gently chivvied them into line, and with her husband on Lord Galbraith’s other side, she took his lordship’s arm and led them all from the grave.

  Penelope watched for a moment longer, and saw Hester Latimer raise her head and glance back, casting her eye over her brood—all of them—in a manner Penelope recognized from having seen her own mother so often do the same.

  Barnaby turned to her and raised his brows.

  Penelope met his eyes and smiled. “The Galbraiths and the Latimers are going to be all right.”

  Barnaby glanced at the families in question, then he smiled, set his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve, and with Violet and Griselda, they started walking back to their carriage.

  * * *

  Eight days later, Penelope was sitting in her garden parlor, curled up in one corner of the sofa, slippers off and feet tucked under her skirts while she devoured that morning’s Gazette, catching up with the latest news.

  On the floor before the sofa, Griselda and Violet were playing with Oliver and Megan. Earlier, Violet had admitted to having felt queasy for the last several mornings, which had raised hopes, but it was too early yet to tell. The possibility of another baby to add to their group had delighted them, but they’d agreed to keep their raptures in check for the moment, and that their husbands didn’t yet need to know.

  With Violet’s help, and after an emergency outing to Montrose Place to seek Jeremy Carling’s advice on several convoluted passages, Penelope had finally finished her translation and dispatched it to the museum. She’d been glad to see the last of it; it had been one of the most boring tracts she’d ever read.

  Reaching the announcements section in the Gazette, her eyes alighted on the notice she’d hoped to find. “Aha! Here it is.”

  Both Violet and Griselda looked up expectantly.

  Penelope duly read, “Lord and Lady Latimer, of Hanover Square and Beechly Park, Surrey, are pleased to announce the betrothal of their daughter, Cynthia Alice, to Mr. Hartley William Galbraith, the son of Lord Galbraith and the late Lady Galbraith, of Hanover Square and Colmey Grange, Sussex. Due to recent bereavement, neither family is presently receiving.”

  “Good.” Griselda nodded approvingly. “I’m glad they didn’t wait.”

  “Indeed.” Violet handed Megan the block she was stretching for. “Those families have had their lives suspended for quite long enough.”

  Folding the paper and setting it aside, Penelope said, “Neither Cynthia nor Hartley struck me as the sort to let life pass them by, but I’m glad their elders are supporting them in that. Both families need to move forward, and it’s reassuring to see that they are.”

  Oliver got to his feet and toddled over to the sofa, a block in one chubby hand. Casting himself at Penelope, he held out the block. “M’ma, play.”

  Penelope grinned, took the block, and bent to place a kiss amid Oliver’s golden curls.

  Impatient, he tugged her sleeve. “M’ma, play now!”

  Both Griselda and Violet burst out laughing.

  “He may have Barnaby’s curls,” Griselda said.

  “But he has your temperament,” Violet finished.

  Penelope’s eyes were all for her demanding son. She beamed at him. “Yes, my darling, now that Mama’s work is all done, it is definitely time to play.”

  With that, she slid off the sofa and joined the others on the Aubusson rug for a rowdy hour of simple fun.

  Later, when both children were sated and lolling dozily in their mothers’ laps while, sitting amid the strewn blocks, the three ladies leaned contentedly against the sofa and chairs, Violet looked at the others—not in envy but in expectation—and murmured, “The greatest pleasures in life are, indeed, free, and most often found with family.”

  “Mmm.” Penelope gently combed her fingers through Oliver’s curls. “Truer words, Violet dear, would be hard to find, but I feel compelled to clarify that family in that context isn’t only about blood. Family, in that sense, is what you make it.”

  Griselda and Violet murmured agreement, then Hettie and Gloria arrived to take the children upstairs for their luncheon, and the ladies rose, shook out their skirts, re-gathered their dignities, and sat down to plan the rest of their day.

  * * *

  The wedding of Cynthia Latimer and Hartley Galbraith was celebrated quietly just over a month later. Penelope, Griselda, and Violet were thrilled to have received gilt-edged invitations; they duly took their seats in the nave of St. George’s and watched with interest and appreciation as Cynthia and Hartley succeeded in formally linking their families.

  “Of course,” Penelope whispered, “the link was already there, but as the minister just stated, it’s now a link that no man—or woman—can put asunder.”

  Despite the subdued nature of the event, an undercurrent of happiness welled, carried in Cynthia and H
artley’s shared glances, in the joy and the hope that lit their faces and was reflected in their siblings’ and parents’ eyes. Regardless of the recent past, it was a joyous occasion, and that joy burgeoned and overflowed, and, combining with hopeful expectations for the future, swept away the wraiths of sorrow lingering from the previous time the two families had gathered in that church.

  And when the time came and the music from the organ swelled into the triumphal march, the assembled friends and connections all rose, cheering, clapping, smiling with sincere pleasure and encouragement, and calling out greetings and good wishes as the beaming couple, now man and wife, walked back up the aisle.

  As Penelope, Griselda, and Violet—all smiling delightedly, too—gathered their shawls and reticules and prepared to follow, Penelope whispered, “Did you see?”

  When, brows rising in question, the other two looked at her, she grinned. “All the ladies in the bridal party are wearing Lady Latimer’s shoes.”

  * * *

  Several months later, Penelope sat at the breakfast table, munching a slice of toast slathered with her favorite gooseberry preserves, while she mentally reviewed the recent announcements from the Latimer and Galbraith families.

  Geraldine was now engaged to Major General Quigley, a senior man in the army, and was no doubt busily arranging her wedding, which was to be held later in the year—a month after Cecilia Latimer and Herbert Brandywell’s nuptials. Primrose and the highly eligible Mr. Hammond had announced their betrothal, which had been quickly followed by the news that Millicent Latimer and Rupert, the Duke of Salford’s son, had fallen rather dramatically in love, but as both were relatively young, their parents had suggested—and everyone was expecting—a long engagement.

  And in the last week, Penelope had heard via her very efficient grapevine that Monica Galbraith and the Earl of Exeter’s son, a close friend of the Duke of Salford’s son, were inseparable, and the Exeters had invited both the Galbraiths and the Latimers for an extended visit at their castle.

  Thinking of how Marjorie Galbraith would have wallowed in such excitement and social interest, Penelope humphed and muttered to herself, “If she’d only done the right thing, she wouldn’t be just happy, she would be in alt.”

  Unsurprisingly, the latter two announcements in particular had enshrined the reputation of Lady Latimer’s shoes as Cinderella talismans. To Penelope’s mind, in light of her own, somewhat unexpected interest in the shoes, that was all to the good.

  Seated at the other end of the table, sipping his coffee, Barnaby had been immersed in reading The Times and the other major morning news sheets; suddenly, he gave a surprised laugh. Setting down his cup, he stared at the page he’d been perusing. “Huh!”

  Folding the news sheet open to the relevant page, he leaned forward and, smiling, tossed the paper down the table to Penelope. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

  Picking up the news sheet, Penelope focused on an announcement prominently placed and outlined in black. In clear and concise language, it stated that the exclusive agreements held by the Latimer and Galbraith families for the supply of the ladies’ ballroom shoes known as Lady Latimer’s shoes had been made over to the Foundling House of London. All ladies wishing to acquire such shoes were directed to make inquiries at either Hook’s Emporium in New Road, Camden Town, or at Gibson and Sons in Mercer Street, Long Acre. Prospective purchasers were advised that a portion of the sale price would be paid to an account managed by Montague and Son of Chapel Court in the City for the upkeep of premises and the furthering of lessons for the foundlings of London.

  The announcement concluded with a subtly worded exhortation to all ladies, young and old, to buy.

  Reaching the end of the notice, Penelope grinned. “Violet outdid herself.”

  Barnaby had been checking the other news sheets. “The same notice is in all the others, too.”

  “Excellent.” Penelope had sent the notices herself. “I couldn’t be sure they would all run on the same day.”

  After studying another copy of the notice, Barnaby looked down the table and caught her eye. “This is really very neat.”

  Penelope’s grin widened into a beaming smile. “I thought so. And I have to say, along with the other directors of the Foundling House, I am really very pleased with the way everything’s turned out.”

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  ENTRIES IN THE CASEBOOK OF BARNABY ADAIR

  WHERE THE HEART LEADS

  Volume 1: Full Length Novel

  THE PECULIAR CASE OF LORD FINSBURY’S DIAMONDS

  Volume 1.5: Short Novel

  THE MASTERFUL MR. MONTAGUE

  Volume 2: Full Length Novel

  THE CURIOUS CASE OF LADY LATIMER’S SHOES

  Volume 2.5: Mid-length Novel

  LOVING ROSE: THE REDEMPTION OF MALCOLM SINCLAIR

  Volume 3: Full Length Novel – July 29, 2014.

  COMING on JULY 29, 2014

  The next fascinating installment in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair

  LOVING ROSE: THE REDEMPTION OF MALCOLM SINCLAIR

  Volume 3 in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair Series

  Miraculously spared from death, Malcolm Sinclair erases the notorious man he once was. Reinventing himself as Thomas Glendower, he strives to make amends for his past, yet he never imagines penance might come via a secretive lady he discovers living in his secluded manor.

  Rose has a plausible explanation for why she and her children are residing in Thomas’s house, but she quickly realizes that he’s far too intelligent to fool. Revealing the truth is impossibly dangerous, yet day by day he wins her trust, and then her heart.

  But then her enemy closes in, and Rose turns to Thomas as the only man who can protect her and the children. And when she asks for his help, Thomas finally understands his true purpose, and with unwavering commitment, he seeks redemption the only way he can—through living the reality of loving Rose.

  A pre-Victorian tale of romance and mystery in the classic historical romance style.

  Full length novel of 100,000 words.

  Short Excerpt from LOVING ROSE: THE REDEMPTION OF MALCOLM SINCLAIR:

  CHAPTER 1

  March 1838

  Lilstock Priory, Somerset

  Thomas rode out through the gates with the sun glistening on the frosted grass and sparkling in the dewdrops decorating the still bare branches.

  His horse was a pale gray he’d bought some months previously, when traveling with Roland on one of his visits to the abbey. Their route had taken them through Bridgewater, and he’d found the dappled gray there. The gelding was mature, strong, very much up to his weight, but also steady, a necessity given his physical limitations; he could no longer be certain of applying sufficient force with his knees to manage the horse in stressful situations.

  Silver—the novices had named him—was beyond getting stressed. If he didn’t like something, he simply stopped, which, in the circumstances, was entirely acceptable to Thomas, who harbored no wish whatever to be thrown.

  His bones already had enough fractures for five lifetimes.

  As he rode down the road toward Bridgewater, he instinctively assessed his aches and pains. He would always have them, but, in general, they had sunk to a level he could ignore. That, or his senses had grown dulled, his nerves inured to the constant abrading.

  He’d ridden daily over the last month in preparation for
this journey, building up his strength and reassuring himself that he could, indeed, ride for the four or five days required to reach his destination.

  The first crest in the road drew near, and a sense of leaving something precious behind tugged. Insistently.

  Drawing rein on the rise, he wheeled Silver and looked back.

  The priory sat, gray stone walls sunk into the green of the headland grasses, with the blue sky and the pewter of the Channel beyond. He looked, and remembered all the hours he’d spent, with Roland, with Geoffrey, with all the other monks who had accepted him without question or judgment.

  They, more than he, had given him this chance—to go forth and complete his penance, and so find ultimate peace.

  Courtesy of Drayton, he had money in his pocket, and in his saddlebags he had everything he would need to reach his chosen abode and settle in.

  He was finally doing it, taking the first step along the road to find his fate.

  In effect, surrendering himself to Fate, freely giving himself up to whatever lay in wait.

  Thomas stared at the walls of the priory for a moment more, then, turning Silver, he rode on.

  * * *

  His way lay via Taunton, a place of memories, and of people who might, despite the disfigurement of his injuries, recognize him; he rode straight through and on, spending the night at the small village of Waterloo Cross before rising with the sun and continuing west.

  Late in the afternoon on the fourth day after he’d ridden out from the priory, he arrived at Breage Manor. He’d ridden through Helston and out along the road to Penzance, then had turned south along the lane that led toward the cliffs. The entrance to the drive was unremarkable; a simple gravel avenue, it wended between stunted trees, then across a short stretch of rising open ground to end before the front door.