“The wrong one for what?”
“The ghost didn’t tell her that,” Lizzie said. “She refused to spend another night here.”
“No blame to her,” Mrs. Cropper said.
The wrong woman for Richard? That made sense in light of the ghost’s rage this morning. Edwina had been the right woman until she’d insulted Richard. “She woke me as if the matter was urgent. She wants me to do something, and do it quickly.”
“Do what?” Lizzie asked.
“Help find the necklace, I assume.”
“Then we mustn’t waste time on lessons.” Lizzie scowled. “Papa says we are not to search the attics but to do lessons instead.”
Did this mean he didn’t trust Edwina to search for the necklace? Her natural indignation reared its head, but hurriedly she suppressed it. Learning self-control had suddenly become a matter of life and death. As placidly as possible under the circumstances, she took another bite of toast.
“It’s not fair. John gets to help him.” Tears glistened behind Lizzie’s eyes. “Does he think I don’t care enough about John?”
“No, of course not,” Edwina said. “Perhaps it’s because he knows that John will do his lessons as well as help him, but I have an idea. We’ll do both. We’ll search the attics whilst conversing entirely in French!”
~ * ~
The cellars were gloomy at the best of times, but Richard’s mood was far worse. Moving barrels of ale and bottles of wine, meticulously inspecting the stone walls behind them, and moving them back again wasn’t an interesting way to spend a morning, but he didn’t mind that. This was necessary work.
But he had blundered this morning when he’d told Lizzie she couldn’t search the attics with Edwina. Worry hung heavily over him today. He was making no headway with his search. Christmas loomed closer and closer, and he needed all the help he could get. He still didn’t understand why Edwina had come to him last night with those blatant lies—surely she didn’t think he would forget her insults so easily―but she wasn’t a thief. If she found the necklace, she wouldn’t try to steal it, so that couldn’t be the reason he’d made such a stupid decision.
No, a combination of pride and a permanently wounded heart had caused that blunder. He couldn’t do much about the pain in his heart, but he could well dispense with pride. He needed someone to talk to, to confide in. Surprisingly, despite the tension between them, explaining the situation to Edwina yesterday had been a relief. “I’m going upstairs for a minute or two,” he told John. “Put all those wine bottles back on their racks. Very carefully, mind, so as to disturb them as little as possible.”
“I know that, Papa.” John grinned—the sweet, endearing smile that never failed to pierce Richard’s heart, more so now than ever before.
Slowly, tired when he shouldn’t be, Richard made his way up to the schoolroom, where he would find a way to enlist Edwina’s aid again, hopefully without either ruffling her feathers or admitting that he believed her nonsense.
She wasn’t there, and nor was Lizzie. This in itself wasn’t disturbing, but if Lizzie had deliberately disobeyed him by going up to the attic, or if she’d told Edwina, who had then encouraged her disobedience, he couldn’t just let it go. Sighing, he approached the attic stairs.
A feminine voice floated down, speaking French. “C’est une robe à l’anglaise,” Edwina said, continuing in that language. “An informal one, perhaps over a century old, also known as a sacque. One can tell by the pleats at―”
Crash!
All thoughts of disobedience fled his mind as he leapt down the stairs again, his heart in his throat.
John was alive. He must be. Richard plunged through the door at the bottom of the cellar stairs.
John stood in a puddle of wine, surrounded by shattered glass, and blood all over…no, that was wine on his shirt, and only a trickle of blood down his cheek, mingled with tears. Richard slumped with relief. “What happened?”
“I d-don’t know.” John caught himself on a sob and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I was putting a bottle on the rack, just as you told me, when that lantern fell from the ceiling.”
Richard picked his way across the floor and retrieved the lantern, which had hung from a hook firmly embedded in a joist. The hook was still there, so what had made the lantern fall? The other lantern, a few yards further on, still hung from its hook.
Grimly, Richard took his handkerchief and dabbed the blood and tears off John’s cheek.
“That was a near miss,” John said, valiantly feigning calm. “If that lantern had hit my head instead of the bottle, it would have killed me.”
“I doubt it,” Richard said. “But you would have had quite a goose egg.”
“It’s not supposed to happen now,” John said. “I haven’t finished with Latin and Greek, and I’ve barely started mathematics, and it’s not yet Christmas.”
“It was an accident, John. There’s no reason to suppose you will die anytime soon.” Worried female voices reached them. “Here come the womenfolk.”
John sniffled manfully. “They’ll make a big fuss about nothing.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve again. They picked their way around the broken glass to where all three females now crowded the entrance to the cellar. “It’s only wine,” he said.
“Go change your clothes while I clean up the mess,” Richard said.
“Tsk,” Mrs. Cropper said, herding John up the steps. “Those stains will never come out.”
“What happened?” Lizzie followed her brother and the cook. Edwina didn’t move.
“I dropped a wine bottle,” John said. “Papa will make me do extra Latin lessons for clumsiness.”
That brought a few chuckles; good for John. Richard picked up the largest shards and dropped them into a bin. Meanwhile, Edwina hovered silently at the foot of the stairs, a disturbing presence. Reprimanding her didn’t seem to matter so much anymore.
“Did he really just drop a bottle?” Edwina asked softly. “That looks like two bottles worth of glass to me.”
“The lantern fell from above, narrowly missing John’s head and breaking a couple of bottles as it fell,” Richard said.
Edwina glanced at the ceiling, which was mostly cloaked in gloom.
“The hook is still there. The lantern seemed perfectly secure when I hung it.” Richard thought he saw Edwina’s eyes widen, and shrugged. “It was an accident and means nothing.”
“How can you say that?” she retorted. “Even if the blow hadn’t killed him, what if he had fallen unconscious onto a shard of glass and lost a great deal of blood, or—or the wound had turned septic? A putrefying wound could keep him alive until Christmas.” Her voice trembled. “What if it was because of the curse?”
Why this sudden about-face? Yesterday she’d been a firm disbeliever. Obviously she was shaken, but she wasn’t the hysterical sort. He couldn’t drum up last night’s anger, but that didn’t mean he believed she had so thoroughly changed her mind. “If it was the curse, why didn’t it kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Edwina said, but she didn’t leave.
“The curse doesn’t almost kill people,” he said, but she still didn’t go away.
He took a broom from against the wall and began to sweep. When the silence had stretched too long, he asked, “Did you make any headway in the attic?”
“With regard to French, yes. Lizzie’s vocabulary is now larger by several words. With regard to ruby necklaces, unfortunately not.” She spoke stiffly, as if expecting a reprimand, and in her hands she clutched a crumpled piece of fabric.
“What’s that you’re holding?”
“Oh!” She released the fabric from her grip and smoothed it out. “In my concern over what might have happened down here, I forgot that I was holding it. It’s a pretty piece of embroidery that we found in a chest.” A few bits of dried herbs clung to it, and she brushed them off. “It’s a representation of the four sections of the knot garden, and I think it must have been done by the first Lady Balli
ster to live here. Her initials are in the bottom right corner: L.B.”
“Then I’m surprised it still exists, seeing as Sir Joshua destroyed everything else to do with her. You found it amongst some other old pieces?”
“Yes, but that’s not the only reason I think she did it. It’s because the square which now contains the monument to her son isn’t there. Instead, there is a statue—of Eros, I think. That must have been the original plan for the square.”
Richard snorted. “Perhaps that is why her irate husband replaced it, the annoying little god having shot his arrow awry.” He let out a breath. “Eros is a damned nuisance, if you ask me.”
~ * ~
Edwina’s heart plummeted much as that lantern must have done. Must Richard make it so entirely clear that he didn’t love her? That their mutual attraction of the past was nothing but that—erotic but meaningless and to be avoided.
She dragged her heart back up where it belonged and set the pain aside. All that mattered was doing her best to save John. Perhaps this near miss was both a warning and a reprieve. She smoothed the embroidery again and summoned her flagging courage. “Richard, I promise I wasn’t lying to you last night. The ghost did speak to me, and she spoke to me again this morning.”
She could have sworn he bristled. “Did she say anything more useful this time?”
“Not really. She slapped me awake. She was angry at me, but she didn’t tell me to go away.”
“She slapped you?”
“Yes. There’s quite a bruise developing on my cheek.”
He strode across the room, plucked the second lantern down, and brought it close to her face. He grunted softly, his expression impassive, returned the lantern to its hook, and went back to sweeping. Once again, indignation surged within her. Did he think she was lying about the bruise? “No, I didn’t walk into a bedpost on purpose.”
“Did I suggest you had?”
“Not overtly,” she began, but stopped herself. No jumping to conclusions. Self-control at all costs. Besides, she had something more important to say. “I think she was angry at me for…for accusing you of lying.” That was true enough; she couldn’t bear to mention the consequences of that action. Not when he couldn’t love her anymore. “Once again, I apologize. I thought over what you said, and I realized it was wrong of me to disbelieve you. My father investigated your circumstances, and although he thought you a fortune hunter, he never found anything about a large debt. He would have told me if he had.” She hung her head. “I know it’s too late to mend anything, but I still wanted to say that I’m terribly sorry.”
After a silence, Richard said, “It occurred to me yesterday, and occurs even more strongly today, that the timing of my arrest for debt just when we were about to elope was…uncanny. So uncanny that I wonder if it wasn’t a coincidence at all.”
“You mean it was planned?” she said, and when he nodded, she retorted, “By whom?” Indignation rose up, but she tamped it down enough to say in an even voice, “Not my father. He was an honest man.”
“I’m sure he was,” Richard said. “I’m less sure about Harold White.”
“I wouldn’t call him dishonest,” Edwina said slowly, feeling her way through the frightful suspicion Richard had just aroused. “But he was a selfish sort of person, and he wanted to marry me.” She paused, thinking it over. “He was a friend of my father’s. I had told Papa that I preferred you. Maybe he relayed that news to Harold, who decided to take matters into his own hands.”
“Precisely,” Richard said, his voice cold and flat. “He could have paid someone to falsify papers about a debt I had never incurred.”
Edwina dashed tears from her eyes. If she’d had more sense, more staying power, less of a temper… “Yes, it’s possible. He was the sort of man to do anything to get his own way.” She willed the tears away. She would not succumb to misery and regret when far more than her paltry feelings were at stake.
Richard stilled the broom. “Once I got out of prison, I was paid a reasonable amount of compensation for the error. It never occurred to me to investigate how it had happened. I was relieved it was over and glad of the extra money, seeing as I had decided to marry.” Bitterly, he added, “Not that Mary, who came with expectations similar to yours, ever accused me of fortune hunting.” He resumed his work.
“I regret my hasty behavior,” Edwina said, twisting the embroidery in her hands. Apologizing did not come easily. “Perhaps I could have—” She took a deep breath. “No, I should have stood my ground and insisted that you loved me, that you weren’t a fortune hunter. I could have continued to refuse Harold, but I let my temper get the better of me. I knew he didn’t want me for my money.” She let out another breath and spread the crumpled embroidery, smoothing it again. “I shall try very, very hard not to lose my temper anymore or to accuse you of anything without proof.”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice only slightly less chilly than before.
“You were lucky to find such a good wife, Richard. Lucky to have a happy marriage.”
After a pause, he asked, “I gather yours wasn’t happy?”
“At best it was boring, at worst quite revolting,” she said. “He gave me plenty of pin money; my role was that of a beautifully turned out and adoring wife. Whenever I wanted to do something to help others, I had to manipulate him into believing it enhanced his prestige.” She flapped a hand to show how little that mattered now. “I get a horrid feeling of urgency from the ghost. That’s why I’m so sure this wasn’t an ordinary accident.”
He grunted again. “As I said before, I leave all options open as to what I do and don’t believe. Just because people see apparitions and hear chains doesn’t mean a ghost can pick up a lantern and drop it on my son. Why would the ghost ask you to help on the one hand, and on the other hand threaten my son’s life?”
“Perhaps to show how pressing matters have become. I think she wants to break the curse. Or maybe the curse has run its course and must come to an end, but she would prefer a—a happy ending, so to speak.” She paused. “I can’t leave my options open. I have no choice now but to believe in the ghost and must act accordingly.”
“As you please,” he said, as if he didn’t particularly care what she thought or believed—or maybe because he still didn’t believe her. “I appreciate whatever help you may give me,” he added politely.
She nodded. “I shall do my best.”
He found a dustpan, swept it full of shards, and dropped them into the bin. “So, Edwina—may we now let bygones be bygones? Start afresh?”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” she said, although it broke her heart. Goodbye to their misunderstanding about the past, yes. To the love they had once shared…how could she wish that? But for Richard’s sake, she would do her best to put it behind her and to complete the task allotted to her by the ghost. And for Lizzie, who dreaded mourning her brother, and for John, who was far too young to die.
“As to your question yesterday about my plans,” she said, “I would prefer to remain here through the Christmas season.” Hopefully, by then the necklace would be found and Richard in a hurry to seek a new wife. “After that, I shall look about me for another position.”
“Very well” was all he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Diligent search of the rest of the attic revealed no necklaces but led to other ideas—such as new clothes.
After dinner that night—boiled tongue and turnips in white sauce, not an elegant meal but a delicious, sustaining one—Edwina broached the subject. They sat at the table in the kitchen, drinking tea, except for John, who carefully copied sentences in Greek. Not for the first time, she wondered what went on in the boy’s head. Apart from a slow, assessing gaze at the bruise on her cheek, he hardly spoke at all during and after the meal.
“Sir Richard, there are chests and chests of discarded clothing in the attic. Would you mind if I used the fabric to make some new gowns for Lizzie? A special one for Christmas, perhaps, and s
ome others for everyday wear. She has almost outgrown what she has now.”
“An excellent notion,” Richard said. “You may make a few new gowns for yourself as well.”
It took a moment to find her tongue. “Thank you, but I don’t require any new clothing.”
“Indeed you do,” Richard said. “One ugly brown gown and an equally ugly grey one are not only insufficient, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t have something less faded and worn.”
She colored with shame. Understandably, he didn’t want a shabby governess—although why should he care, when she would be leaving in a month or so? “Perhaps, but the fabrics we found in the attic are inappropriate for a governess, who must dress in sober colors.”
“Oh, fudge,” Lizzie said. “I agree with Papa. What about that lovely blue wool? I’ll wager there’s enough for a gown for each of us, even if there are a few moth holes here and there.”
Maybe so, but it verged on improper for Richard to provide Edwina with anything but serviceable clothing. That wool was far too costly for a mere governess.
She strove to suppress the yearning in her heart. How she would love to wear pretty colors again.
“There’s a seamstress in the village who would welcome some work,” Richard said as if the matter was settled. “She may not be acquainted with the latest modes, but if you design the gowns, she is competent to sew them.”
“The robe…robe a l’anglaise is a beautiful dark green,” Lizzie said. “I would like a gown made of that. There was a crimson gown, too. Crimson would suit you, Mrs. White.”
“Perhaps, but it would be completely inappropriate,” Edwina said, her cheeks heating. Crimson did indeed suit her—it was the color she’d worn the night she and Richard had waltzed together into the dark garden.
“As you wish,” he said, echoing his indifference of earlier in the day. “If you need any thread, ribbons, and so on, you may send to Chester. Which reminds me, it is past time to start thinking of Christmas baskets.”
“Christmas baskets?” Lizzie asked.
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