Death on the Sapphire

by R. J. Koreto

  “And what do you deduce, my lady?”

  “That perhaps . . . there are multiple motives here,” she said slowly. “One manuscript, but different people searching it for different reasons?”

  “You’re thinking like a lawyer now,” he said. And Frances laughed.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll have to mull that over. Meanwhile, Dorothy—Mrs. Tregallis—and I have agreed to start a correspondence. So at the very least, I have made a new friend.”

  “A new friend is always a cause for rejoicing,” said Hal. “And speaking of friends . . . I am sorry for interrupting your conversation with Gareth Blaine.” He was looking closely at her. He wanted to know how deep their friendship went.

  “Not at all. We were just finishing. But tell me, do you know him well?”

  “Not very well. As he said, we’ve acted for his family for years, as we’ve done for the Seaforths. And he does something in the Home Office.”

  Frances suspected Hal knew more—a lot more. She had noted how stiffly the two men had greeted each other. Had Hal extricated him from a romantic entanglement in the past?

  “I don’t know him well myself. We only met briefly at a reception full of government people. There were hints he rather has something of a reputation.” She made it almost a question.

  “Lady Frances,” said Hal with mock severity, “do you really expect me to gossip about my clients?”

  And she was saved from having to answer by the announcement that dinner was served. They rose, and Hal gave her his arm.

  “We’re not going to our dining room. It’s a bit large for just two. We have a small library, and as someone who likes books so much, Franny, I thought you’d like to dine there.” Hal made it sound more informal than it was. The table was elegantly set. The butler poured the wine, and a footman placed the roast in front of Hal and then served the potatoes and vegetables. Then they both bowed out.

  With a flourish, Hal began to carve.

  “My maternal grandfather felt carving was an art,” said Frances. “He’d be pleased at how well you do it.”

  Hal gave a mock bow. “No less a personage than Sir Hubert Salisbury, chief of surgery at Guy’s Hospital, admired my carving.” You keep surprising, Mr. Wheaton, thought Frances.

  Hal began by asking Frances what cities besides New York she had visited in America. The only other big cities she had been to were Boston and Philadelphia, both of them wonderful in their way, but she wanted to know more about Hal—what had he done? What were his schooldays like?

  Gradually, he shared with her, a little shyly. Perhaps he thought with her travels and aristocratic upbringing, she wouldn’t be interested. But Franny, who had been educated by tutors until she went to college, loved hearing about life in a boy’s boarding school—Charles hadn’t ever discussed it with her, as if it were a secret club.

  “I was quiet and studious, I suppose,” he said. “My scholastic highlight was a series of unauthorized drawings I made one evening in the dorm, caricatures of some of the masters. My schoolmates roared with laughter, and I attained great popularity as a result. But I got careless and was found out. I was brought before the headmaster—I’ll just say I couldn’t sit for a week.”

  Frances laughed at his story but turned serious at the conclusion. “Outrageous. I know most people would disagree with me, but I can’t see how corporal punishment helps the learning process.”

  Hal laughed in return. “I wish you had been there to defend me. I’ve heard you have to suffer for your art, and I certainly did. But it sounds like you have strong opinions on education. So tell me what theories you subscribe to.”

  “I do have strong opinions.” Then, feeling a little priggish at what she had said, she smiled. “One of my governesses said, ‘Frances, you have strong opinions on everything.’ She did not mean it as a compliment.”

  “I’ll bet she didn’t,” said Hal. “There is nothing wrong with knowing your own mind—indeed, it’s quite admirable. As long as you can be flexible in the face of new facts.” And Frances agreed.

  Cook had made a tart for dessert, and after, Hal said there was a pleasant little garden in the back, and as the night was mild, perhaps they could sit outside for a while. Frances thought that a fine idea, and soon they were outside on wrought iron chairs with pillows for comfort. The only light came from the windows in the house, and Frances could just barely see Hal.

  Sitting in the dark and quiet, Frances thought again about Hal. He was correct: strong opinions were all right, but, yes, one needed to be flexible. She had always thought of Hal as limited in his point of view, but that wasn’t true, she was realizing. He liked music and art. He painted. He wanted to travel. But there was more.

  “I want to thank you,” she said.

  “For dinner? My pleasure.”

  “No—although dinner was lovely. I meant for all those times we met in your office and you explained things so clearly and fully. You never condescended to me because I was a woman. You never suggested I just let my brother handle it. And Dorothy told me how well you treated her. It was her good fortune to be in the care of you and my brother, probably the only two men in England who wouldn’t look at her with contempt because of what she had done. These sound like small things, but they’re not. And for them I owe you great thanks. You think I am unusual because of my education and travels. But you’re the unusual one.”

  He was so quiet, she wondered if he had heard. No—he was thinking carefully before he spoke.

  “You may be the only one who thinks me unusual.”

  “That’s not true. My brother, your distinguished clientele, they think you’re a wizard at the law.”

  “At the law, Franny. But you think I’m an unusual person—not merely a man of law.” The next words flowed out quickly, as if he were afraid that by thinking on them, he’d lose courage. “It’s true that my life has been usual—and until recently, that was satisfactory. But since our first meeting, that changed, and now my life is defined by the memory of our most recent meeting and anticipation of our next one.”

  So Mary had been right—men didn’t paint portraits of women who were just friends of the mind.

  “I know this is very forward of me, but I had no illusions I could hide my feelings from someone as sensitive as you. So I bring this up now to assure you that despite my feelings, I shall never behave improperly.”

  Frances peered into the darkness. Was Hal trying to make a joke? But no, his face was serious.

  “Hal, do you think I’d be afraid that you’d lose control and ravish me here in your mother’s garden?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t mean improper in that sense. I meant that I wouldn’t presume.”

  Now Frances was lost. Was this more confusing lawyer talk? “Presume what?”

  Hal stammered again, and she was reminded of when he was trying to tell her about Danny Colcombe and his illegitimate son.

  “Well, naturally, that as deep as our friendship could be, that it could be nothing beyond, that it couldn’t progress—that it would only be a friendship.”

  What was he getting at? Oh—was it just like with Gareth? He was promised to another? It had never occurred to her, but why shouldn’t a well-set-up solicitor have a young woman eager to become his wife?

  “You’re engaged?” she asked softly.

  “Engaged? What—of course not.” He laughed. “Whatever gave you that idea? My mother throws me in the way of eligible women, whether I like it or not, but there has never been anything close to an offer of marriage. Franny, you’re the daughter of a marquess. I’m the family solicitor. I’m not such a fool as to forget that.”

  Ah, now everything was clear, and Frances felt in control again. “Hal, maybe our friendship will continue to grow. My feelings for you continue to deepen. And if they do reach a certain point, I assure you, your status as the family solicitor will be irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant to you, Franny. Not to your brother—Lord Seaforth—or t
he rest of your family, I’m sure.”

  “You do me an injustice. And my brother. When I choose to marry, I am independent of my family, both socially and, as you well know, financially. And as for Charles, he’s more open-minded than you give him credit for. Anyway, Charles and the rest of the family have already glumly concluded that my progressive opinions and radical politics had ruined any chances of an aristocratic marriage. A solicitor would come as a relief.” Even in the dim light, she could see him smile when she said Charles would probably expect a discount on fees from a brother-in-law.

  “But understand me, Hal. I want to continue our friendship. I want to continue to spend time with you. But there are still things I want to do before I move on to the next stage of my life.”

  “Franny, I have never been so pleased to be wrong and that our different positions will not be a barrier. I respect your feelings without reservation. And if I can keep spending time with you, I will be a happy man.”

  And Frances felt happy too and pleased at the way she handled it. Hal . . . could she possibly? Perhaps someday. And meanwhile, time spent with him was pleasant indeed.

  Nevertheless, when Hal said he would accompany her in a cab home, she became prickly and said she was perfectly capable of riding in a hansom by herself.

  “It’s not to protect you, Franny. It’s to extend the evening with you.” And Frances had to apologize. There were assumptions you just couldn’t make when conducting a love affair, she concluded.

  The ride home went quickly, and she let Hal give her a gentle kiss on her cheek when they arrived at the hotel. Imagine that, she thought, wanting to kiss me but holding back because of my family. He really was an old-fashioned man, but she had already changed his mind on universal suffrage, women’s education, and class differences. Yes, she reflected, Lord Gareth was more progressive already, but there was something delicious about influencing the wonderfully kind Hal to her way of thinking.

  “We are allowed to invite guests to dine with us at Miss Plimsoll’s. Even men. May I play hostess to you one night?” Hal said he’d be delighted, and they fixed a day.

  Mallow was waiting for her upstairs and helped her get ready for bed. Again, Mallow found her mistress a little distracted. Could it be . . . ? Well, Mr. Wheaton is not titled, but he is better behaved, Mallow imagined, than Lord Gareth.

  “A pleasant evening, my lady?”

  “Yes, very, thank you, Mallow.” Mallow helped her out of her elaborate evening dress. “Mallow, men can be rather funny, don’t you think?”

  For questions like that, the all-purpose answer was best: “Yes, my lady.”

  Frances had various committee meetings the next day and tried to put the manuscript out of her mind for a while. Why did anyone think she had it? What gave anyone that idea? She tried to organize her thoughts over dinner, filling pages in her notebook. She was vaguely aware of the other ladies, most of whom tended to older widows and spinsters, looking at her and shaking their heads.

  Frances and Mallow sat in companionable silence in the sitting room. It had started to rain, and as the drops beat against the dark windows, there was no other sound but the turning of the pages and the click of Mallow’s knitting needles. When they had moved into Miss Plimsoll’s, Mallow would typically retire to her room after dinner until it was time to get Lady Frances ready for bed. But one night, after several weeks, Frances had knocked on Mallow’s door.

  “How can I help you, my lady? Are you ready for bed?” It seemed early for Lady Frances.

  “No, I was just thinking that your room—well, it’s a little dark and small to properly knit. The choice is yours, but you may join me in the sitting room, if you’d like. I just read and write letters.”

  “If you don’t mind, my lady, it would be rather nice,” she said. And so it became their custom. Mallow decided it was very thoughtful of her ladyship. Frances never admitted, even to herself, that after growing up with her family, then living in a busy college dormitory, she rather missed company in the evening.

  Frances noted how nimble Mallow’s fingers were; whether it was sewing, knitting, or even lace making, Mallow excelled. Would she leave Frances’s service when she got older and work for one of the fine London dressmakers? She was a pretty girl—would some man claim her one day? Perhaps not the neighboring valet she had been walking with on her day off, but someone else.

  Or maybe they’d grow old together in this flat? No—Henry Wheaton would press his suit. Did she want him? Keep him waiting long enough and she’d likely lose him. Men won’t wait forever.

  A firm knock on the door roused her, startling both women. It was rare to be disturbed this late.

  “Let me see, my lady,” said Mallow. She opened the door to admit one of the household maids.

  “Ever so sorry to disturb you, my lady. But a gentleman downstairs says he’s most eager to see you this evening.” She handed Frances a card—Mr. Davis Bramwell, member of Parliament.

  “Come to apologize, I hope,” said Frances. “Very well. Thank you, Mabel. Mallow, I will see what this gentleman has to say.”

  Bramwell was pacing in the lobby.

  “Lady Frances, I am glad I found you in. We have much to discuss.”

  “First, you have much to apologize for,” she said.

  “Yes. I can waste time begging your forgiveness for my language. And you can beg my forgiveness for eavesdropping and invading my office unannounced. Or we can get down to business. My coach is outside.”

  “You want to meet in your coach? Where are we going?”

  “We’ll just ride around. It’s private.”

  Frances felt a momentary fear—but this was a member of Parliament. He may be selfish and untrustworthy, but he’d have to be a madman to lay hands on the daughter of a marquess.

  Frances excused herself to go upstairs to get a cloak. She told Mallow not to worry and gave her Mr. Bramwell’s card. “He’s a member of Parliament,” she said, trying to calm her dubious maid.

  It was still raining, but Bramwell had an umbrella and showed her into his coach. He told his driver to just keep going—a stopped coach could catch someone’s attention, and he clearly didn’t want that.

  “I ask you again, Lady Frances. Why do you seek me out?”

  “I told you. I am looking for Daniel Colcombe’s manuscript.” She thought to challenge him. “As are you—I believe you were at the Colcombe funeral?”

  “As a member of Parliament, it behooves me to attend funerals of many leading citizens. Your brother no doubt attends many as well. But back to our subject: it may interest you to know that I’ve heard about this manuscript for weeks. And since we last met, I made some inquiries and have given the matter more thought. You’re an intimate of the Heathcote set. Have they made you an offer? I’ll give you a better price.”

  Frances was astounded. How had Bramwell gotten the story so wrong?

  “Sir, what possibly makes you think I have the manuscript? If I did have it, why would I have shown up at your house? I assure you it is not in my possession, and I have only the barest acquaintanceship with the so-called Heathcote set. Indeed, I wasn’t even introduced to the Heathcotes.”

  But he was already shaking his head. “Don’t waste your time or mine. Rumors about that book have been flying around London since Colcombe died, and I wanted to distance myself from it as much as possible. But old Crossley knew. He must’ve known you had the manuscript. I know you visited him. And I know your suitor, Lord Gareth Blaine, is his nephew. You were just using them to see who’d be interested in it and how much you could get.”

  Frances just stared for a moment at Bramwell and his grim smile. She was so surprised at how utterly wrong Bramwell was. It was both frightening and fascinating to see how much of her actions had become public. Who was uncovering her secrets like that—and grafting on falsehoods like her possession of the manuscript? She doubted Bramwell had the skills to orchestrate this himself. Who else could be doing this?

  “I w
ent to Lord Crossley looking for the manuscript. I’m looking for it. I don’t have it. I’m not trying to sell it. I want it so I can publish it.” Did Bramwell really believe her showing up at his office and talking about the manuscript was just some genteel blackmail? “Seriously, Mr. Bramwell, tell me who told you I have the manuscript.”

  He stared at her, incomprehension all over his face. “People who know, Lady Frances. I am going to pay you an honest compliment. I know you are both bright and shrewd—yes, I’ve asked about you, and even those who dislike you respect you. Indeed, you are too sharp to be unaware of men in London who make it their business to know things. And as a member of Parliament, even in a party not in power, I know these men. And they know me.”

  “Again, all I can say is that I don’t have it. I thought you had it.” He started to protest, but she cut him off. “Don’t bother. I now know I was wrong. You don’t have it. I saw you weren’t just angry when I brought it up; you were afraid.”

  He sighed. “I have to make a lot of decisions in my official life. I have to decide who is lying to me. I’ll pay you another compliment, my lady. I think your brother may be using you as his agent. He’s one of the most promising men in the Liberal Party, and I’m willing to wager the two of you are in this together to make the Conservatives look bad.”

  He pulled an envelope from his jacket. “Keep pretending. Inside is a very substantial bank draft. I know that despite your many faults, your charitable work is genuine.” He flashed her what he obviously thought was an ingratiating smile. “How does this sound: as a member of a political family, you will do me a favor and not publish anything that would embarrass me. You will edit the manuscript accordingly—when you find it, of course.” He winked at her. “And as a favor to you, one of the leading philanthropic women in society, I will give you this bank draft. Turn it over to the soup kitchen. You give them dinner? Start giving them lunch as well. Do we understand each other?”