by Joan Smith
“Indeed, my sister is gone . . .” the last word petered out.
The little face under the brown hat crumpled, and a tear oozed out of the dark eyes, but in an instant her face resumed its former contours, and a small hand brushed away the tear. “I’m sorry to hear it. Where is she?”
“She—it—the body is still upstairs. We must wait for the doctor to come by, my dear. Sir Hillary is coming, you say?”
“Yes, they are just come home, but don’t know Sophie’s dead.”
“They must be notified.”
“They are coming up immediately after dinner. It’s not worth while sending a boy down.” The stout little voice was trying hard not to break. “Excuse me,” she said and turned away to dash up the stairs.
“Rag-mannered,” Mrs. Milmont said to her daughter.
“She was overcome with grief, mama,” Claudia objected.
“That sassy chit? She hasn’t a thought or a tear for anyone but herself. Snatching the diamonds out from under our noses with her conning ways. If Sophie only meant to give them to a niece and not her own sister, I don’t see why she shouldn’t have given them to you, but you never bothered to make up to her in the least.”
“I never saw her till ten minutes ago, and she was dying then.”
“You saw her any number of times—at least once or twice—when you were in pinafores. I daresay you don’t remember.”
“I have not been in pinafores for a good many years, Mama. You forget I am twenty-four.”
“You could not have written her a letter, I suppose? Oh no, it never entered your head to be conciliating. You must needs let Miss Beresford walk off with a fortune.”
“The will has not been read yet. Mama, why did you keep asking if Sir Hillary was come yet? Do you know him?”
“Know him? My dear, he is the Nonesuch!”
“None such what?” her simple daughter enquired.
“Oh, child, don’t pester me with your stupid questions. He is one of the leaders of the ton, of the fashionable elite in London.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“No, he thinks he is too highly placed to bother his head with me. A toplofty, arrogant . . .”
“Then why are you so anxious to know if he is come?”
“It can do no harm to be pleasant to him. Of the first stare, you must know.”
“But if you dislike him, mama, and really he sounds very disagreeable . . .”
Such a foolish remark as this received the withering glance it deserved. “Run up and see if Luane has anything to say. You might just hint if she is to get the diamonds.”
Claudia agreed readily, but she had no notion of quizzing her cousin about the diamonds. She had felt a pang of pity rush out to the girl when she had heard of her aunt’s death. So far as she could see, Luane was the only one who did grieve at Aunt Sophie’s passing. She must be quite alone in the world now, except for mama and herself. And this Gabriel, of course, but as yet Gabriel Tewksbury was unknown to Claudia. All that was known was that he had refused to marry Luane, so he could not be much comfort to her. The girl’s position reminded her uncomfortably of herself when papa had died nine years ago. She had her mama, of course, but no one who wanted her. It was her good fortune that her grandparents had taken her in and given her a home.
Miss Bliss directed her to Luane’s door, and she tapped twice. Receiving no answer, she opened the door and stepped in. She feared she would find her cousin on her bed in a fit of tears, but it was no such a thing. Luane was standing at a clothespress, flipping over a small selection of gowns. She turned and looked at the interloper out of her big dark eyes.
“Are you my cousin Claudia?” she asked.
“Yes, and I am very happy to meet you at last, for you are the only female cousin I have. My papa’s brother has two sons, but they are only rowdy little boys. May I come in?”
“You are in. I am happy to meet you, too. You aren’t much like your mama, are you?”
“No, we are not much alike. Are you choosing a gown?”
“Yes, do you think this pale blue . . . or should I wear the navy moire?”
“It is chilly downstairs. I'd wear the navy with long sleeves if I were you.”
To her surprise, Miss Beresford turned around with her back to her cousin and proceeded to undress herself, with no apparent discomfort or hesitation, though she kept her back to her the whole time.
“I expect you are very sorry to hear of your aunt’s death,” Claudia said, while she stared at the floor and wondered if she ought to leave.
“Yes, it’s inconvenient,” was the unexpected reply.
“Inconvenient?” Claudia asked, startled.
“Yes, I had hoped she’d hang on till I was married. I have nowhere to go now, you see.”
“I see,” Claudia answered, much struck by this plain speaking.
“I can’t go to Cousin Gabriel, for he is still at university. Your mama won’t have me, because she won’t even let you live with her, and you can’t ask me to your grandfather’s place, for they are no relation of mine.” There was no hint of a whine or even complaint in this recital, but rather an angry tinge to the whole.
“Well . . .” Claudia said and could think of not a single suggestion to proffer.
“Just like Rosalie,” Miss Beresford said with a sigh.
This comparison would have conveyed nothing to most, but to a woman much addicted to trashy novels herself in her greener years, Rosalie Dumont was as well known as Queen Charlotte. “Yes, the comparison is striking.” Claudia agreed readily. “Very like The Daughter of Bardon Hall. I hope you don’t mean to solve your case in the same manner, for I think Rosalie was imprudent in fleeing aboard a ship to France, don’t you?”
“How else should she have met and married the Comte de Davencourt?” Luane asked.
“Yes, I had forgotten that, but there was no war on in those days and no Bonaparte.”
“Yes, it can’t be France,” Luane said consideringly. “Are the Frenchies in Italy, too?” she asked.
“They are scattered all over Europe and, with Boney escaped from Elba, your best bet to meet a lord is right here in England. And you would do better to remain a girl, too, instead of turning into a boy, like Rosalie.”
“It is very vexing, but then I am not so poor as Rosalie. I shall have a diamond necklace worth fifty thousand pounds.”
“That is a very respectable dowry,” Claudia replied.
“And I’m pretty too,” Luane pointed out. Claudia looked to the little face now turned towards her for examination and was much inclined to agree.
“What I must do is hire some impoverished lady to chaperone me till I make a match.”
“What sort of man would you like to marry?” Claudia asked, happy to see the mundane manner of her cousin.
“A titled gentleman,” was the unhesitating answer. “I mean to be a great lady.”
“Ah, like Rosalie, I collect.”
“Yes, and then he’ll see . . .”
“That will show him,” Claudia agreed quietly. “Who is he?”
“My cousin—it is no matter.”
“The captain?”
“That toy soldier!” she scoffed. “I mean Cousin Gabriel. He will see I'm not an ill-behaved brat.”
“Did he call you so?”
“He certainly did, and only because I asked Hillary if he bought me anything. He usually brings me bonbons,” she explained.
“Did he remember the bonbons?”
“Yes, would you like one?” She passed a box of candied gingers. “Have two if you like. These are not my favorite.”
Claudia contented herself with only one of the treats and chewed it while waiting expectantly for more news from this interesting creature.
“How old are you?” Luane asked suddenly.
“I am rather old, but you must not tell anyone, for mama is still young,” Claudia answered with a slight tremor in her voice.
“I thought you weren’t a
s young as you let on,” Luane said unemotionally. “Would you care to be my chaperone, cousin?”
“It would be excessively diverting,” Claudia replied readily, “but I have not yet put on my caps and could not do much to introduce you to great noblemen in any case.”
“Sir Hillary will do that. He is a nonpareil. I think you would make a very good chaperone. You are old without being too old.”
“I am greatly flattered,” Claudia said, drawing her handkerchief to her unsteady lips, “but I doubt my grandpa could spare me.”
“He will have to spare you when you marry.”
“True, but chaperones don’t usually marry, especially old ones.”
“You aren’t over the hill—quite. We’ll find a nobleman for you, too, cousin. A widower perhaps, with children, then you won’t have to bother having any of your own. I think it must be very uncomfortable, don’t you?”
“I have always thought nature mismanaged it very badly. We ought to just lay an egg like the birds.”
“Or lay a whole bunch of them at once and have it over with.”
“Even better.” A small gurgle of laughter escaped Claudia, and she marveled at her lack of decorum when she had come here to console the bereaved. “I expect you are sad at losing your aunt,” she essayed once more.
“She wasn’t so bad, but she didn’t like me. I’ll miss her, but she’s been talking of dying ever since I came here, and I am used to the idea. Shall we go downstairs? I’m starved,” she added prosaically. They left the room, arm in arm and went gaily chatting down into the house of mourning.
Dinner was only an indifferent repast at Swallowcourt, as everyone but Claudia had good reason to know. She wished she had accepted another candied ginger. The captain remained behind after dinner only to taste the port before joining the ladies. One sip informed him he would as lief have tea.
The tea tray was just brought in when the butler came to the door. “Sir Hillary Thoreau and Mr. Gabriel Tewksbury,” he announced, and all eyes turned to the door.
Chapter Three
Two elegant gentlemen strolled in, about as different as it was possible for two men to be. Gabriel was young, fair, slight, and appareled in the raiment of a young dandy. His hair was brushed forward in the Brutus do, his shirt points high, and his waistcoat of a brightness bordering on the garish.
His companion was taller, older, broader across the shoulders, his hair and eyes dark. His dress was restrained, and his expression, as he observed the mourners, was sardonic.
It was the elder who advanced first into the room. “The vultures gather, I see,” he said in a well-modulated voice, with a cool smile directed at random on the group.
Miss Bliss said, “Tch, tch,” but the sound blended with the clicking of her knitting needles and went unheard.
“One must suppose Sophie’s demise to be imminent, to have lured you two rakehells from the city,” Thoreau continued, looking now at the captain and Mrs. Milmont.
“She’s dead,” Captain Tewksbury said accusingly.
“Don’t eat me! I didn’t kill her,” he answered, with no show of either sorrow or surprise. “How thoughtful of you to have notified us.”
Miss Bliss cleared her throat. “It happened late this afternoon just before Luane returned from Chanely. As you were coming over this evening, we didn’t think it worthwhile to send a footboy down to tell you.”
“I see her clutch-fisted way of managing matters survives her,” he said to Miss Bliss, then turned to Jonathon. “Were you on time to be in on the kill, Captain?” he asked.
“By Jove!” the captain answered, and Mrs. Milmont, who had been fulminating since their entry, could contain herself no longer.
“This is a most inappropriate way of behaving in a house of death, Sir Hillary,” she said severely. “And you ought to be in mourning, too, or at least wear an armband.”
“And so we should be, had we been notified of the death,” he agreed. “And I see you brought your black gowns with you, Marcia darling. Up to all the rigs, as usual.” He then advanced to Luane and took her hand, saying in a low voice some words of condolence. Gabriel followed him, bowed to everyone, then he too went to Luane, at which point Hillary returned to the others.
“Was it a peaceful passing?” he asked of them all.
“The doctor had just left a while before. She was in bed, of course,” Miss Bliss explained.
“You, I take it, were with her?” he turned to Jonathon.
“No, I had been playing chess not half an hour before.”
“Ah, that explains it,” Hillary said. “It nearly killed me the one time I played with you, and my constitution is quite strong. Something about your manner of moving the pieces is killing.”
“I don’t see why you must be clever at a time like this,” Mrs. Milmont charged angrily.
“No indeed, it will not do me, nor any of us, any good to be clever at this late date. The time to have been clever was before she popped off, n’est-ce pas? Were you clever during the chess match, captain?” His eyebrows rose very slightly, and his eyes of a dark penetrating blue looked levelly at Jonathon.
“Not very.”
“It was a foolish question; you never are.”
“She was beating me all hollow,” Jonathon informed him.
“She cannot have been totally unconscious at that time then, one imagines.”
“Wasn’t unconscious at all. As wide awake as you or me.”
“As you or me? You must confess there is a large degree of difference.”
“I’m awake enough!”
“But, captain, that was precisely my meaning. Awake on all suits, certainly. Our lives in your hands—God help us! What is the news of Boney in London?”
“There’s no news.”
“No news is good news,” Miss Bliss said, with a warning stare at Hillary. She knew him in this satirical mood of old. He smiled at her and winked, then turned back to Jonathon. “Have you got the obsequies in train?” he asked.
“I’ve been writing letters to everyone . . . Miss Bliss gave me the list.”
Sir Hillary trained his blue eyes on Miss Bliss again. “You notified Fletcher?”
“Yes, he was the first one Jonathon wrote to. It was her wish.”
“And who, might one ask, is Mr. Fletcher?” Mrs. Milmont demanded, ready to take offense.
“Now you, darling, are not nearly so wide awake as Jonathon,” Sir Hillary said, wagging a long finger at her. “Is it possible you do not know her new solicitor? Fletcher is the interesting gentleman—er, man—not quite a gentleman, I fear—who will stun us all with the reading of the will.”
“Mr. Cartwright was always her man of business, and mine too.”
“Mr. Cartwright was of no use to her this past year. She needed someone closer to hand than London, for she changed the will regularly. Yes, you may well gasp like a landed fish, my dear, our fortunes were all up and down like a—a suitable simile fails me momentarily.”
He gestured with a pair of shapely hands on which a handsome ruby ring rested. “It was everything for the captain one day—some vestigial traces of primogeniture consumed her at one time. No, Jonathon, your glee is premature. That was immediately after Christmas, when Gab and Luane refused to be buckled. When you forgot her birthday in February and Marcia so wisely remembered, sending that elegant trifle—what was that wisp of lace for, Marcia? We couldn’t quite figure it out.”
“It was a lace cap.”
“I suggested to her it was a cap, but Sophie would have it it was a container for her wools. That is what she used it for ultimately. She liked it excessively,” he said with a half smile at Mrs. Milmont.
“Did she indeed? So happy to think my little gift cheered her.”
“Yes, it was a good idea. Sophie always liked to get something for nothing, but then you both—really how could you be so negligent, and Sophie within Ame’s ace of sticking her fork in the wall—you both forgot Valentine’s day, and it was another cal
l for Fletcher.”
“I daresay you remembered Valentine’s day?” Mrs. Milmont asked in a meaningful tone.
“I try to be civil,” he allowed modestly.
“She never left it all to you!” the captain gasped.
Hillary pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. “My best efforts came to naught. She took it amiss that I twice visited her in a new jacket—that is to say, two visits, two jackets—neither of which she liked, and the lot was destined for Luane.”
Two pairs of hostile eyes turned on Miss Beresford, but she didn’t notice them. Gabriel also was looking at her, winking merrily. “How he enjoys bamming them,” he said.
“Luane is only a niece!” Mrs. Milmont said to Hillary. “No more to her than my own little girl.”
“Your little girl was never mentioned in connection with the will. I for one begin to doubt her very existence.”
“What nonsense!”
“Why have you so foolishly failed to produce her for inspection all these years, darling?”
“Why, she is right here!” Marcia replied, pointing to Claudia, who sat quietly all the while in a corner, saying nothing but listening to the conversation with her eyes open wide, and a curious expression on her face—something between a frown of disapproval and an upturning of the lips that was not quite a smile.
“Such a quiet little girl,” Hillary said, training his quizzing glass on her. Seated, she looked young, for her face was still youthful, and her light brown hair simply styled. “No, no, you fool me,” Sir Hillary said, lowering the glass and turning once more to Mrs. Milmont. “This cannot be your little girl.”
Marcia flushed with pleasure. “I married very young, and Claudia is big for her age.”
“You might pass for—er—sisters? certainly, but so different in looks—style. . .” he trailed off vaguely.
“When Claudia is a little older will be time enough for style,” Mrs. Milmont said coyly.
Claudia turned pink at this mendacious discussion of her youth, and in fact turned a mutinous countenance on her mama, who met it with a hard stare and then smiled again sweetly. The quick shift in expression did not escape Sir Hillary’s lazy-looking eyes. Though he kept them half closed, they missed very little.