“Why does Grandfather blame us for Papa’s death? We did nothing to cause it.”
“He disliked your father’s choice of bride, Hebe. He considered me too meek. At the funeral he suggested that a stronger woman would have kept your father in line.”
“That’s so unfair!”
“Nevertheless, he did express that view. Of course, he was grief-stricken. His only son. Suicide is a dreadful blight on a proud family like the Fenchurch’s.”
“He is hateful,” Hebe said fiercely. “He left us to starve. I’ll never forgive him!”
“We might have to, dear. More than a year has passed. He may have gained a better sense of proportion and will seek to right a wrong. I live in hope that he will soften and take you to his heart. You are his only grandchild.” She put down her knitting and began to unwind wool from the ball. “Until then, I want you to be safe. Grief also made me mad for a while. I should never have allowed you to go out to work. The best place for you is with your aunt.”
Perhaps it was for the best, now she no longer worked for Lewis, Hebe thought gloomily. “When are we to leave?”
“I intend to close up the house immediately. I’ve spoken to the servants. Cook has agreed to take another position. Kitty visited the employment agency today and was assured of work. Begin to pack, Hebe. We shall leave the day after tomorrow. We’ll travel by stage coach and arrive before your aunt has second thoughts.”
~~~
Unsettled, Lewis stared at the statue. He had little desire to tackle it but chose a broad file and began to smooth the roughened stone over the head and shoulders. As he worked, his thoughts rested on Hebe. What more could he do? She had turned down his offer to help her. Should he try again? A position within his household in the country? Ridiculous. She could never be a maid, and even should she become one, it would not help her mother.
He worked steadily by the light of a lamp and retired to bed long after midnight. Determined to make inroads before he needed to hire a new model, he rose at dawn and after a hearty breakfast, threw himself into his work.
In the late afternoon, he returned the file to his work table, pulled off the gloves and flexed his tired hands. While standing before the statue with a glass of claret, he inspected the work he’d done with a practiced eye. It was far from completed, but the stone appeared satin smooth and gleamed softly as the gathering dusk drew shadows over the room. More filing was needed to banish the dimples in the stone, but this part of the statue was as near to perfect as he could have wished. The stone coil of hair rested on one perfect shoulder. His gaze followed the line of Hebe’s long neck and the tilt of her chin. He’d thought on first seeing her that she had good bones, good proportions. Now he saw even more. An undeniable beauty, yes, but strength too. There was determination in that firm chin, and perhaps a little stubbornness too.
If only she would let him help her.
He shrugged and turned his thoughts back to his work.
As night fell, instead of the warmth of a job well done, he stood there feeling as if something had gone from the room along with the light. His inspiration. Lewis cursed under his breath. Couldn’t for the life of him imagine another model sitting there on the chaise. It required Hebe here to finish it.
Lewis threw off his cloth coat and headed to his bedchamber to change for dinner, having made plans to visit his club for a game of faro. He really needed some bright company.
Later in White’s library, while waiting for his friend to arrive, Lewis settled in a leather armchair nursing a glass of whiskey. He was aware of some furtive glances as he flicked though the Gentleman’s Magazine then sifted through the newspapers and periodicals. Was he imagining a hostile attitude directed at him from some members? He was about to put a broadsheet down when it all suddenly became clear. Walter Ashe’s name had caught his eye. The artist who had painted Laura’s and Marigold’s hands. Lewis quickly read the small item, hardly believing the words, his blood running cold. Ashe had been interviewed concerning a young woman who had been identified as Miss Marigold Crabbe. Her body was found near his premises in the grounds at Holland House. He had employed the deceased as a model until recently.
Lewis rose from the chair and banged the glass down spilling whisky over the table.
“Are you all right, milord?” a waiter asked rushing over.
“Some distressing news, Jenks. I apologize for the spillage.” Lewis walked over to the writing table seized a quill and quickly penned a note. He handed it to Jenks who had mopped up the whiskey and was seeing to the fire. “Please give this to Lord Trevelyan when he arrives.”
Lewis tipped the man and left the club. But when he reached the street, he hesitated while the chilly wind threatened to wrench off his hat, and tried to order his thoughts. He was unsure how to proceed. Marigold dead! He didn’t even know how she’d died; the article had failed to provide that information. Had she died because she was desperate to find work? Alone in the night? His chest tightened. He had to learn more. First, he must speak to Hebe. But dammit it, he couldn’t call on them late at night.
Late, the next afternoon, when he expected Hebe would have returned from looking for work, he took a hackney to her house, wondering how to best approach her without revealing her secret to her mother. As he left the carriage, a housemaid emerged from the front door.
Lewis hailed her, and she swiveled to stare at him.
He strode up to her. “Would Miss Hebe Fenchurch be at home?”
She put a hand to her chest. “Oh my, you startled me, sir. Her ladyship and Miss Hebe left this morning for the country.”
“Do you have their address?”
“It just so happens I do, sir. Her ladyship has gone to her sister-in-law’s residence.” She took a piece of paper from her pocket and held it out.
“Ambrose house, Lillyvale village, East Sussex,” Lewis said. “Do they plan to be away long?”
“They made no mention of returning, sir. The lease has been cancelled.”
He handed her back the note. “I see. Thank you.”
Relieved because Hebe was safe and in no danger from a possible murderer who might be lurking about, he returned to the waiting hackney. He tamped down a sense of disappointment that the decision of how to proceed with the statue had been made for him and entered the carriage. “Take me to Bow Street, jarvie.”
The jarvie groaned. “Bow Street, milord?”
“I gather you know where it is?”
“Course I does. Not somewhere I fancy going though.”
“You have something to hide from the constabulary?”
The jarvie chuckled. “Not that, sir. I tend to avoid Covent Garden. Especially at night. Had no end of trouble with the fares I’ve picked up around there. Groups of gentlemen, much like y’self, no offense milord.”
“None taken.”
“They have me trawling the lanes while they visit the brothels in search of ladies of pleasure. Then some balk at paying the full fare.”
Dusk was falling as the carriage took off. “Some hours before the street lamps are lit, and the area gets busy,” Lewis observed.
“Don’t matter. The area always swarms with harlots, buffoons, and all manner of rabble,” he said, urging his horse along. “Swindlers, cheats, and low gamblers. Gangs of pickpockets, who’d stab yer as easy as look at yer.” He sighed gustily. “Many of the pickpockets are little more than children. I can deal with them easily enough. It’s when an opera dancer offers a man their favors in lieu of fare. I’m a married man.”
Lewis laughed. “I’m sure you can handle yourself,” he said eyeing the driver’s broad shoulders.
The jarvie grunted. “Can still be taken for a ride. A few nights ago I picked up a well-dressed gentleman from around the Garden. Wanted to go home to Mayfair. ‘The fellow, big he was, was bleeding into his cravat. Said some harlot had stabbed ‘im in the neck with a broken glass after he rejected her advances. When I got ‘im ‘ome, the blighter made me wait an hour before h
e sent the fare out with a servant. And it was ’alf me bleeding fare! He lived in a big grand house. Osborne Place it was.”
Lewis paused after he was set down outside Bow Street magistrate’s court, Basil Osborne was another friend of his brother-in-law’s with bad habits it seemed.
He straightened his shoulders and went inside determined to get to the bottom of Marigold’s death.
Chapter Seven
Hebe and her mother began their journey from the Swan and Two Necks in Lad Lane, Cheapside, where they were made aware of the costs and the danger of being fleeced during the journey to Brighton. They would be required to pay for their meals and lodgings. How fortunate to have obtained seats inside the stage coach with a man and his wife. They pitied the eight poor souls who rode on the roof. Hebe gripped her reticule filled with sympathy for them when the coach lurched around a corner and tilted alarmingly.
After a day of unrelenting rain, a wheel became stuck in a water-filled pothole. All the passengers climbed down and waited while the horses were backed up. Hebe grew concerned for her mother, her face pinched and white beneath her umbrella. When the coach finally broke free of the mud, everyone cheered and clambered back on. The second time it happened no one cheered. Every ten miles they changed horses and took advantage of a brief stop where food and drink was available. It was hard to eat a meal when the coach took off again after twenty minutes. And they had little appetite after they learned that the uneaten food was sold again.
As the day dragged on, the man sitting opposite lit his pipe. Ignoring his wife’s faint protest, he puffed away, the smoke filling the coach interior. He glared at Hebe when she coughed and took out her handkerchief.
Two uncomfortable nights passed at noisy, packed, coaching inns, and at sunrise, after a rushed breakfast, all of them climbed aboard again.
Late on the third day, the smell of the sea greeted them. The coach deposited them in bustling Brighton where her mother hired a hackney for the journey to Lady Prudence’s residence some miles inland.
The driver pulled up outside a red brick two-story house, with attic windows in the slate roof, surrounded by an abundant garden. He removed their trunk, pocketed his fare, and left their luggage on the carriage drive.
Exhausted, their clothes soiled and crumpled, Hebe helped her mother up the steps wondering what kind of reception awaited them. It appeared that Lady Prudence lived simply for an earl’s daughter for the property was by no means grand.
A maid in a black dress and white mobcap opened the door. She bobbed. “I’m Mary, milady. Please come in, yer expected.”
As they entered the hall, a cacophony of shrill barking sounded from within. The terrier, Aries, a little older and fatter than Hebe remembered, rounded a corner at speed on his short legs. He ran straight for her and launched himself into her arms.
Hebe staggered and dropped her reticule.
The maid took little notice. She gestured toward the door. “I believe Lady Prudence is still in the garden. Quite a morning it’s been. Please come into the parlor. I’ll tell ’er ladyship yer ’ere.”
“Our trunk?” Mama asked faintly.
“Diggory will fetch it,” the maid said.
Hebe and her mother followed the maid with Aries dancing around their feet. The parlor was furnished with a mixture of uncoordinated pieces of furniture. The green velvet sofa they sat on had worn patches on the arms.
After the maid left the room, Hebe leaned down to pat the dog before he tore her stockings to shreds. “Is Lady Prudence not comfortably off?”
“I must say I find this surprising.” Mama looked about with a pained expression.
At that moment, Lady Prudence entered the room dressed in a flowing round gown with a chemisette tied at her neck, a style popular before Prinny became Regent. She wore her brown hair pulled back in a severe chignon, and her hands, when she took Hebe’s in a strong grip, were rough to the touch.
She gave Hebe’s hands a little shake before releasing them. “Well, here you are. I planned to come and meet you at the inn, but Bertie escaped his cage and flew out of the window.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mama said. Neither of them asked what Bertie might be. It didn’t seem necessary as it was clear he must be a bird of some sort.
“The gardener climbed the oak in the end,” Aunt Prudence explained with a smile of satisfaction. “We had a terrible time trying to catch him. Diggory professes to be afraid of heights. Such nonsense. My, Amelia, you do look drawn. Mary, don’t stand rooted to the spot, tell Cook to make sandwiches, and…” she called as Mary made for the door, “… scones, the gooseberry preserves, cream, and don’t forget the honey.” She perched on the chair opposite them looking rather like some sort of odd bird herself. “My bees have been most obliging. We have put up several jars.” Her hazel eyes scrutinized Hebe. “Are you interested in apiology?”
Hebe found her aunt’s eyes quite penetrating. “I’m afraid I’ve never had much to do with bees.” She sank back onto the sofa cushions as Aunt Prudence described the demands of being a beekeeper.
She let her aunt’s talk flow over her. It had been an excruciating journey. Worse than Hebe envisaged. The man and his wife left them after the first day to be replaced by two elderly men. All of them too numb to talk as they rocked sickeningly over the rutted roads. She’d worried about her mother, who’d never known such a sad lack of creature comforts. It was true Mama did look drained although not a word of complaint passed her lips.
“It is so good to see you again, Prudence,” Mama said, when at last, Aunt Prudence drew breath.
“The last time we met was under such sad circumstances,” Aunt Prudence agreed. “Well, here you are now, and I’m glad I offered. It’s a big house, why not fill the rooms? If you plan to stay for a while, that is, Amelia.”
Although it wasn’t an entirely gracious invitation, Hebe felt relieved that her mother had been made welcome. At least until she’d regained her strength. Hebe knew Mama was determined to throw herself on Grandfather’s mercy. She feared it might result in a crippling disappointment. But then it might be better if Mama did leave before she realized that Hebe could never be content here. A voice in her head screamed, no, no, no.
~~~
At Bow Street, Lewis spoke to Sir Robert Baker, the chief magistrate. From the Scot, he learned the details of Marigold’s death. Shocked and sickened by the violence, he gave the constables the little information he had, and then left, wondering if some still doubted him. As Laura died in much the same way, he suspected they would view him with a measure of suspicion.
Lewis returned home and sat by the fire nursing a brandy. He had no desire to work, as his mind stubbornly returned to that awful period in his life when Laura had left him for the Whig Geoffrey Lancaster, son of Baron Lauderdale.
Laura and her lover had been traveling the Great North Road on the way to Geoffrey’s estate in Durham. But they never reached their destination. Both were found dead in a bedchamber in the Crown Inn in Bigglesthorn, a village between St. Albans and Stilton. Robbers, it was first believed, but her jewels and possessions were not taken. Odd too that her ladyship had been strangled while Lancaster was knifed. As Lewis was on route to Bath and his country estate at the time, it was difficult to prove he hadn’t been behind it. And even after an ostler and an innkeeper came forward to absolve him of any involvement, the suspicion that he might have arranged her death fueled the ton’s gossip for the last two Seasons.
When Lewis visited the morgue, his heart seemed to stop beating as he gazed down on Laura’s body. The image of her beautiful face ravaged in death returned to haunt him when at his weakest. He’d hired a Bow Street Runner to find the murderers. He’d even roamed the Great North Road himself, inquiring at coaching houses and the villages their coach passed through. He’d found nothing, and neither had the Runner. It remained an extraordinary and devastating mystery. Did his preoccupation with his work drive her into another man’s arms? He would never be sure.
<
br /> Lewis stirred from his chair, discovering the room had lightened from black to violet gray. The fire must have burned out hours ago. He shivered. Cold had seeped into his bones. A low mood had him in its grip as he rose stiffly and returned to his bedchamber. He stretched out on the bed filled with despair as he fought to find a clear way ahead. One thing was certain. He wouldn’t work with another model. It was doubtful he would ever finish the statue. After an hour, he rose, washed in cold water, and dressed without calling for his valet.
In his studio, Lewis stood and faced the marble, glowing in the early morning light. It seemed to take on a life of its own. He seized a mallet and advanced on it, determined to break it into a thousand pieces.
A knock sounded at the door. “Milord?”
Lewis put the mallet back on the table. “Come in Dunston.”
His valet hurried in with a reproachful expression. “I brought your shaving water to your bedchamber and discovered you’d dressed yourself, milord.”
Lewis sighed. He refused to remain in the city and have people stare at him with suspicion again. He’d lose his mind. “You are to shave me, Dunston. And pack enough clothes for at least a week.”
“Where is your direction, milord? If I may be so bold to ask?”
Lewis was only too familiar with Dunston’s boldness. “Bath.”
“Your estate, milord?” Dunston asked hopefully. “Then I am to accompany you?”
“I’ll send for you should I need you.” Lewis left the room refusing to acknowledge Dunston’s hangdog air. He was strung so tightly, he was desperate to be alone.
At his desk in the library, he penned a note to Emmy, advising her of his decision to remove himself from London for a while. Nothing of concern, he was at pains to reassure her. Matters requiring his attention had arisen in Surrey.
An hour later, he was tooling along the road in his curricle toward Chesterton Manor, the Tudor mansion he’d inherited from his father. The trees were dressed in the colors of early spring. His horses moved in perfect unison and the fresh country air after the pollution of London lifted his spirits. Before the nagging worry returned. What to do about Hebe? Should he alert her to possible danger? Or was his own situation causing him to overreact? And if he did write to her, her mother might read the letter. He mustn’t chance it.
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