I spread my hands. “It is complicated. Her people have always camped on Father’s land in Sussex. When Magda had some trouble with them, she naturally turned to me. We had closed up the country house, so I could only offer her a position here in London. She works well enough, when she has a mind to. Her life has not been an easy one.”
His lip curled in derision. “Do not waste your pity, my lady. I have some experience with Gypsies, and I have found that their lives are just about as difficult as they wish them to be. Good night, my lady.”
He nodded shortly and took his leave, letting himself out and leaving me to puzzle over his coolness. I had thought him broad-minded. His obvious distaste for Gypsies surprised me. But in that respect, he was like most other people of my acquaintance. Father was one of the few landowners in Sussex to welcome Romanies onto his property. As children we had played with them, learned their games. But even as they expressed their gratitude at having a safe place to stay, if only for a little while, they kept themselves apart in every way that mattered. We were rarely invited to eat with them, and were strictly forbidden to learn any of their language.
Thus, I had no idea what it was that Magda had just called Brisbane. I only hoped it was not an obscenity, though her tribe of Roma were so fierce about guarding their tongue from outsiders, he would not have understood it in any case. I should have to speak to her about her behavior, something I dreaded. Usually, I allowed her little foibles to pass unmentioned, but soliciting my guests for fortunes in my own home was beyond the pale. Perhaps London was proving too expensive for her modest pay and she was in need of money. Perhaps I should raise her wages.
As I stood in the doorway of the study, pondering the thorny problem of Magda, the bell rang again and Aquinas reappeared to answer it. I wondered if Brisbane had forgotten something, as there was the low rumble of male voices. But another visitor was admitted to the hall.
“Father!”
I went to him and kissed him. “This is an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to me at this hour of the evening?”
He handed his coat and stick to Aquinas and held out his arm, gesturing me to lead the way to the study.
“A letter I received this morning. Come, my pet. You have some explaining to do.”
THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
As mad as a March hare.
—Proverb (14th Century)
I poured Father a glass of port and took nothing for myself. After the whiskey I had drunk with Brisbane, I was feeling addled enough, and I had the notion that this conversation was going to require all of my wits.
Father took a sniff of his wine, then a tentative sip. He raised his brows in my direction.
“Not at all bad. Better than the dishwater you used to serve, my pet.”
“I’ve given over the ordering of the wine to Aquinas. He has a better nose for wine than Edward did.”
“Hmm.” He took another sip. “Most agreeable. But this,” he said, waving my own letter at me, “was not. What the devil did you mean writing this to Griggs?”
I spread my hands innocently. “I meant what I said—I was upset. I thought that Doctor Griggs could ease my mind.”
He looked at me shrewdly from under his thick white brows. “Ye gods, girl, if you think I am going to believe that, you are dafter than any child of mine ought to be. Now, if it is a private business, tell me so, and we will not speak of it. I’ve no wish to press a confidence you do not wish to make.”
I thought for a long moment, then shook my head. “No, it is just as well. I could use your advice.”
I told him, as briefly as I could without losing any relevant detail, what Brisbane and I were about. When I finished, he whistled sharply.
“So that is your game. Well, I cannot say I am entirely disappointed. No, I cannot say that at all.”
Far from looking disappointed, he was happier than I had seen him in an age. His colour was high and his eyes were gleaming.
“You are enjoying this!”
He shrugged, looking only very slightly guilty. “Edward has been gone a year. There is little enough chance of you getting yourself into any real danger. Edward’s murderer, if there is such a person, is probably long gone from the scene. This entire exercise is largely academic. It is you I am enjoying, my girl.”
“Me? I am as I ever was. I have only cut my hair and bought some new clothes.”
He shook his head. “No, it is more than that. You’ve finally done something daring enough to deserve the family name. You have begun to live up to the family motto.”
“Quod habeo habeo? ‘What I have I hold?’”
Father rolled his eyes. “Not that one. The other.”
Audeo. “I dare.” It had been our informal motto since the seventh Earl March had married an illegitimate daughter of Charles II, thus linking our family with the royal house of Stuart. Family legend claims that he adopted the motto with an eye to putting his wife on the throne someday, until Monmouth’s unsavory end warned him off of his kingly ambitions. It was one of the favorite family stories, although when I was seven I had remarked that the seventh earl had not really dared very much at all. It was the only time I was ever sent to bed without supper. After that I never really warmed to the motto. It had always seemed like a good excuse for irresponsible and reprehensible behavior. I had long thought we would be a far more respectable family if our motto had been “I sit quietly in the corner and mind my own business.”
Father would not be put off. “There is more to it than lopping off your curls and buying some new dresses. I always worried about you as a child, Julia. You took your mother’s death very hard, you know.” He paused, his expression dreamy. “I wonder, do you even remember her?”
I thought hard. “I remember someone who used to hold me, very tightly. Someone who smelled of violet. And I think I remember a yellow gown. The silk rustled under my fingers.”
He shook his head, regretful. “Ah, I thought you would have remembered more. That was her with the violet scent. I am glad you wear it now. Sometimes you move through the room and I could almost imagine she has been walking there.”
He paused and I think his throat may have been as thick as mine. But he went on, and he was smiling. “The yellow silk was her favorite gown that last summer, when she was expecting Valerius. She wore it almost every day, I think. You stopped talking for just a bit after she died, do you remember that?”
“No.” But I did. I remembered the long silences, the feeling that if I spoke, if I moved on, she would never come back. The certainty that I had to stay just as I was if I wanted her to return. I practiced stillness, rarely moving, trying to force myself not to grow without her.
“Of course, you hated Valerius,” Father was saying. “Blamed him, I imagine. Most of you children did. I did so myself for a while, although it wasn’t the boy’s fault. Ten children in sixteen years—too much for her. But she wanted you all. She wanted you so very much.”
His voice trailed off, and I knew he was seeing her. She had been beautiful; I had seen the portraits. I had impressions of her, but no true memories. He was right. I had been six when she died. I should have remembered more.
“You are very like her,” he said suddenly. “More than any of the others. She was gentle and good, much more respectable than the scapegrace Marches she married into,” he said with a chuckle. “She would have understood you with your quiet little places, your desperate need to be normal. Yes, you are very like her.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright green in the lamplight. “But she knew how to take a chance, my pet. After all, she married me. You have her blood, Julia, but you are a March as well. There are seven centuries’ worth of adventure and risk and audacity in your blood. I always knew it would come out eventually.”
I smiled. “I always thought Bellmont must be quite a bit like Mother.”
“No. He is the biggest rebel of the lot. That’s why he runs Tory.”
“And you think I am beginning to live up to the March legac
y?”
He gave a satisfied sigh. “I do. This murder business may be just what you need. Although, best to let sleeping dogs lie, I always think.”
I snorted at him. “You have never let a sleeping dog lie in your entire life, Father. And surely you are not condoning letting a murderer walk free?”
He shrugged. “You have not found a murderer yet. You may not even have a murder. Perhaps poor Edward ought to lie where we buried him.”
I did think about it. It was tempting, the idea of sweeping this bit of possible nastiness under the carpet and getting on with my life. But I knew I could not. I would not be able to sleep nights if I thought that Edward had been murdered and I had done nothing to right that wrong. I smiled at the irony that undertaking this investigation might actually be the one thing in my life that satisfied both my sense of duty and my very secret, very small desire for adventure. I looked at Father and shook my head. “I cannot. It is my duty. If there is any chance that Edward was murdered, then I must do all that I can to bring him justice.”
He finished his port. “All right, then,” he said, rising. “Do what you must. And I will not ask you what that Brisbane fellow was doing leaving here at such an hour,” he said, chucking me under the chin.
My face grew hot. “We were discussing the investigation,” I told him quickly. “He was here a quarter of an hour at the most.”
Father smiled at me sadly. “My dear girl, if you don’t know what mischief can be gotten up to in a quarter of an hour, you are no child of mine. Come to supper on Thursday next. Hermia is having an oratory contest and I mean to sleep through it.”
He was gone with a wave over his head, leaving me dumbstruck. Surely my own father was not advocating an illicit affair with Brisbane? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was exactly what he was doing. It did not bear thinking about. Well, truthfully, I did think about it quite a lot. At least until Valerius came home covered in blood.
THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
If circumstances lead me, I will find
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the centre.
—William Shakespeare
Hamlet
Father had not been gone a quarter of an hour when Valerius came home. I heard him call a brief greeting to Aquinas in the hall, then hurry past the open door of my study and up the stairs.
I called to him, but he did not reply. I followed him up the stairs, catching him up at the door to his room.
“Valerius! Whatever is the matter? I want to speak to you. Father was here this evening—Val? What is it?”
He was hunched over, facing the door, his coat folded over his arm. He was not wearing his waistcoat.
“Are you ill?” I put a hand to his shoulder to turn him, but he threw me off.
“I am well, please.” He edged away, but I followed.
“Julia, leave me.”
“Valerius, stop being tiresome. Turn around and face me this instant.” He went very still, probably weighing the odds that I would go away and leave him in peace. He must have realized how slim they were, for when I reached out for him again he turned. His face was ghastly, pale and lined with fatigue, but it was his shirt that made me gasp. The pure white linen of his shirtfront was dark crimson, crusted with dried blood. I put out my hand.
“Val—you’re hurt! My God, what happened to you?”
He brushed my hand away. “I am well. The blood—it isn’t mine.”
“Whose, then?” I put myself between him and the door and he sighed, knowing he was going to have to tell me the entire story.
“There was a fight outside the theatre. It was quite vicious. A man, set upon by ruffians. They got out his tooth and cut him rather badly about the head.”
I raised a finger toward the wide crimson stain.
“Careful,” he said, edging away. “There are still some spots that are wet.”
I shook my head in astonishment.
“But so much blood, you must have been quite close to him.”
He nodded, his face rather grey at the memory of what he had seen. “I sat with him and tried to stop the bleeding while his brother went for their carriage.”
“How ghastly for you! What were they about, these ruffians? Did they mean to rob him?”
Val passed a hand over his face. “I do not know. Some private quarrel, I think. But I am out of it now. I want only to change my clothes and get into bed.”
I gestured toward his fouled shirt. “Give me the shirt. It must be put to soak or it will be spoilt.”
He hesitated, then nodded and slipped into his room. I heard the raven quorking at him irritably. After several minutes, he opened the door just enough to thrust the soiled shirt into my hands.
“Thank you,” he said shortly. He shut the door before I could question him further. I shrugged. I had no doubt the fight would be detailed in the morning papers. And very likely an enterprising reporter had obtained more details than Valerius had.
Holding the crusted shirt at arm’s length, I made my way down the stairs, through the hall belowstairs, past the kitchens and into the laundry. Aquinas was finishing his rounds of the windows and doors, his locking-up ritual for the night. He always carried a lamp with him and extinguished the last of the house lights as he went. The front of the house was in darkness and I could hear him securing the bolts on the garden doors.
I moved quietly, feeling unaccountably timid about explaining Val’s gory shirt. If Aquinas saw it he would insist upon soaking it himself and he would doubtless find some fault with Magda’s methods of keeping the laundry, his own standards being far more exacting than hers. The absence of a housekeeper at Grey House, though unorthodox, was perfectly adequate in most circumstances. With Magda, it sometimes proved a liability. For the most part she kept to herself, and on the rare occasions when discipline was required, Aquinas was man enough for the task. But Magda seldom went along easily with his corrections, preferring to rage or sulk, depending upon which approach seemed likeliest to garner my support. The two of them were entirely capable of waging a war of attrition that would last for days. Rather than facing a staff row, it seemed far simpler to deal with Val’s nasty shirt myself.
Although, I should have brought a lamp or at least a candle, I realized as I barked my shin on the pressing table in the laundry. By all rights I should have summoned Magda to take the shirt herself, but I was far too tired to even contemplate tackling Magda. There was still the question of her appalling behavior toward Brisbane to address, and I was unwilling to speak to her tonight. It was late now, and I was more than ready for my own bed. All I wanted was to dispose of Val’s unspeakable garment and put the whole evening’s bizarre events behind me.
With any luck, the stains would have soaked out by morning and there would be little trace of Val’s adventure at the theatre. Magda always kept a bucket of cold water at hand for the soaking, and I knew she liked it to be stood below the front windows, those that overlooked the area. It gave her good light, even on overcast days, and a chance to see passersby—if only from the ankle down.
I had just reached the bucket and lifted the lid when I heard voices. I started, thinking I was not alone in the laundry. But as they went on, I realized they were coming from the area above me. The pair had taken refuge behind the potted trees to the side of the front door and were speaking in low, harsh voices. I recognized them at once.
“I will give you one last chance to let go of my sleeve before I break your fingers.” To my astonishment, I realized that this was Brisbane. His voice was iron, cold as I had never heard it, and I had little doubt that he meant his threat, though I could not imagine what he was doing there, of all places. He had left Grey House an hour before.
Magda’s laugh echoed mirthlessly.
“Oh, I think not. You will not hurt me. There are still some of us who remember Mariah Young.”
These last words were a hiss, and they must have struck Brisbane like a lash, fo
r I heard a scrape, like a quick footstep, and her sharp intake of breath. There was a little moan of pain.
“Do not interfere with me,” he told her. “I will ruin you if you dare.”
“Others have tried,” she spat back. “But you remember that I know who Mariah Young was—and I know how she died.”
He must have released her then, for there was a sharp clang against the railing and the sound of booted footsteps moving quickly away in the dark. And following him into the night was Magda’s laugh, low and throaty, like the rasping call of a raven.
THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
Oh, we are lords’ and ladies’ sons,
Born in bower or in hall,
And you are some poor maid’s child
Borned in an ox’s stall.
—Traditional Ballad
To my surprise, I slept rather well that night. The alcohol I had consumed, coupled with the evening’s strange events, proved entirely too much for me. I crept up the backstairs in order to avoid Aquinas, said little to Morag as she got me ready for bed, and was asleep almost as soon as she closed the door behind her.
But I woke early to the muffin-man’s bell, and lay awake, listening to the streets come to life and thinking hard about the previous night. Brisbane’s initial call had been unexpected, but not unorthodox. Whatever malady he suffered, it had been considerate of him to make the effort to warn me that he would be incommunicado for some days.
Father’s call was somewhat more puzzling. I could well believe him capable of encouraging me in as bizarre an undertaking as a murder investigation. What I could not believe was that he actually seemed to be regretting the fact that I had not taken Brisbane as a lover. That Father had never entirely approved of my marriage was no secret. Just before he walked me down the aisle, he had paused in the vestry and offered to take me away—France, Greece, anywhere I wanted if I had changed my mind. I had laughed, thinking him in jest, but after Edward and I had been married for some time, I began to notice things I had not seen before. Father, always a woolgatherer, became sharply observant whenever Edward was in the room. I watched him watch my husband, and wondered what he was thinking. I never had the courage to ask and he never said, but I suspected I knew already. Edward was the sort of man Father universally despised—wealthy, self-satisfied and utterly incapable of thinking or feeling deeply. Father’s sensibilities were so refined, he had been known to lock himself in his study and weep over Titus Andronicus for hours. Edward had not even wept when his mother died. Father might deplore Bellmont’s stance as a Tory, but he applauded his convictions. Edward had had none.
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