by Ann Clement
Sir Percival waited for her at the bottom of the staircase when she descended on the morning of their wedding breakfast. Dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the church, he presented an image of strength and self-confidence. A sliver of sunlight that gleamed through the dome highlighted his dark hair. Letitia noted again the fine lines of his features and the sensuousness of his mouth. An unexpected longing washed over her, together with the renewed desire to paint his face.
Sir Percival let his gaze sweep over her figure. Apparently, she passed inspection, because his eyes smiled when they met hers. He offered her his arm once she reached the last step.
“It is going to be a long day,” he remarked. “Are you ready?”
“Certainly,” she said, looking around the hall. The flower arrangements on the commodes filled the space with heavenly scents and an effusion of colors. Even the figures in the portraits seemed to have lost some of the rigidity of their stance. Sir Giles’s silver breastplate shone under the long line of sunlight stretching from his left shoulder and across the canvas all the way to that warped bottom corner of the frame Letitia had noticed while going over the inventory with the housekeeper.
A thought struck her. “Are there any relatives of yours among the guests today?”
“No,” Sir Percival said. “My aunt and her family live in Devonshire.”
“Do you ever see her?”
“I visit her and my uncle every year,” he replied. “We were once very close. They took care of me after my parents died.”
His parents died so long ago? She was stunned by his admission. “How old were you when that happened?”
“My mother died when I was five. My father followed her within a couple of years.”
“I am so very sorry,” she said spontaneously and with sincerity. The familiar, unrelenting regret and sense of loss that overpowered her whenever she thought of her brother and mother washed over her uninvited.
Sir Percival nodded. “I am fortunate to have caring relatives who spared no effort to care for me and my inheritance,” he said. “I owe my aunt and uncle a great deal more than I can ever repay.”
Letitia’s chest constricted when she imagined a little boy leaving his home for the last time. But there couldn’t be a more awkward time to tell him how sorry she felt for the child he had once been. They were about to greet their guests. She realized she was squeezing his arm when he covered her hand with his and patted it.
“It was a very long time ago,” he said. “Speaking of my aunt, there is one of her friends, Mrs. Baillie. She moved to the village here and bought Rose Cottage after her husband died in the American War. I think you will like her.”
An elderly lady in a flowing dress and a straw bonnet adorned with roses floated toward them, her arms outstretched and a broad smile on her face.
“Percy, my dear!” she exclaimed before hugging Sir Percival and kissing his cheeks.
He stepped back and kissed her hand.
“So, you are a married man again. God bless you both.”
She turned to Letitia.
“You, my dear, must promise to visit me often,” she said, taking her hands. “An old woman like me could use young company. And I want to get to know you better, now that you are part of us.”
“Thank you.” Letitia smiled. There was warmth in Mrs. Baillie’s demeanor that managed to melt away even some of the sternness in Sir Percival’s countenance.
“You, my dear child, are the envy of a number of young ladies who set their caps on Percy.” Mrs. Baillie squeezed her hands and smiled back. “I am glad for you. And you too,” she added, turning a motherly gaze on Sir Percival. “Make the most of your good luck, my dear.”
He bowed his head in response and indicated the door.
Mrs. Baillie sent Letitia another warm glance before going in.
Meanwhile, Sir Percival turned to greet the family that had just dismounted from their carriage. “The Fogerhills,” he murmured into Letitia’s ear as they watched the approaching couple, two girls behind them.
A heavyset woman in a gauzy dress almost pulled the man whose arm provided inadequate support for her ample figure. His inconsequential stature was further diminished by the plumes bobbing in all directions from his wife’s elaborate headdress.
“Let me warn you that Mrs. Fogerhill never stops talking. You may follow her husband’s example and let her go on uninterrupted. It is an art he perfected years ago.”
“Thank you for the warning,” she sputtered, suppressing laughter.
Half an hour later, when the duty of greeting the guests seemed done and they were ready to follow everyone to the lawn, two more persons arrived. An elderly gentleman approached slowly, supporting himself on two canes. His strained features suggested a very recent and probably very temporary victory over the pernicious gout. His companion was a young woman with vibrant, coppery locks peeking from under her bonnet. The mossy-green dress in the first stare of fashion offset the hair’s fiery quality quite formidably.
“Mr. Wilkinson was my father’s friend,” Sir Percival explained before the pair reached them. “His son, Thomas, is now traveling on the Continent. This is his daughter, Lady Marsden. She returned to Pythe Park after her husband died four years ago.”
“She is a widow?” Letitia glanced at him, surprised.
“She married Marsden at seventeen. He was sixty. Poor chap enjoyed his marital bliss for only four years,” Sir Percival explained, the corner of his mouth quirking up enticingly again.
“You will forgive me, my dear Lady Letitia, for not taking your hand,” Mr. Wilkinson said once he reached them. “I am afraid to let go of either of my canes, you see. But I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Percy, my dear boy, you deserve heartfelt congratulations. Nothing can delight me more than seeing you happily settled.”
Lady Marsden silently awaited her turn while she scrutinized Letitia’s hair and dress. But now she extended both hands to Sir Percival and rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheeks.
“You old liar,” she accused him, but it was done with an indulgent smile. Letitia found her greeting annoyingly too familiar. “You never mentioned your matrimonial plans, even to your dearest friends.”
“I beg your pardon. It was not intentional,” Sir Percival replied and removed his hands from hers, turning to Letitia. “Allow me to introduce Etheldred, Lady Marsden, my dear. Ethel, this is my wife, Lady Letitia Hanbury.”
Ethel?
Lady Marsden turned to her at last. Her face was full of curiosity, and a broad smile brought two dimples to her cheeks.
“What a pleasure to meet you, Lady Letitia,” she murmured, never stopping her perusal of Letitia’s face, then grinned. “Oh, I can already tell we will get on together famously.”
Mr. Wilkinson grunted and shifted his weight.
“Ethel, my dear,” he exhaled harshly. “Be so good as to take me inside. I beg your pardon, Lady Letitia. I fear my canes will not do the job much longer.”
“Of course, Father.” Lady Marsden glanced at him, her forehead momentarily creased with worry, before focusing on Sir Percival again. Then she graced Letitia with a brilliant smile. “I am so very happy at the prospect of forming a new friendship.”
A couple of hours later, Lady Marsden maneuvered to secure Letitia’s company all for herself.
“At last, I can indulge in the pleasure of conversing with Percy’s beautiful bride.” She looped her arm through Letitia’s as they strolled toward the gardens. “I wanted to tell you myself how sorry I was for missing your wedding, my dear. I was in Norwich for a few days while Percy had the audacity to be at the altar without giving anyone the least warning. How naughty of him to keep his plans secret.”
Percy? The familiarity with which Lady Marsden referred to her husband grated unexpectedly, but they’d known each other since childhood. After seven days o
f marriage, Letitia still thought of him as Sir Percival.
“I must confess I feel offended that he never mentioned you to one of his closest friends,” Lady Marsden continued. “And, please, do call me Ethel.”
“Then you must call me by my given name as well,” Letitia replied.
Lady Marsden turned toward her, amusement in her gaze. She wrinkled her nose in a conspiratorial smile. “Percy’s marriage was such a surprise, you know, particularly after he made it clear that he was not interested in matrimony, any more than he was in taking up embroidery. That is, until one day, about a week ago, when we all knew him a single man after breakfast and found him a married one before dinner. But one glance at you, my dear, suffices to explain why he acted so hastily and on the sly. Or why he lost his head so completely. He must admire you ardently.”
Admire her? Wasn’t it evident that he did not?
“I fear you exaggerate.” It was probably best to dispel Lady Marsden’s conclusion. “All there is to it is an eligible match on both sides.”
Lady Marsden’s gaze became more intense. The smile disappeared from her face. “I am sorry to hear it. But then, it is not very surprising. Poor Percy, he was so devastated by Sarah’s death. I must confess, we feared for his life after it happened. He loved her to distraction, you know, worshipped the ground she walked on. Although I fear you will dislike me for saying this, I am rather convinced he still harbors some feelings for her.” She sighed deeply. “Poor Percy,” she repeated. “How we all wish him happiness.”
This unexpected effusion took Letitia so much by surprise that she missed a step. To cover her reaction, she stopped and turned to face Ethel.
“Why did Sarah die?” she asked.
Lady Marsden stiffened a little, then cast a quick glance around, as if afraid that someone might overhear them.
“No one really knows why.” She leaned closer to Letitia and kept her voice low. “To be sure, she was often unwell for long periods of time, but not that summer. To the contrary, I never saw her in better spirits. Most ladies speculated she was carrying, but neither Sarah nor Percy said a word about it. And I would have known, as her closest friend. Her sudden and unexpected death was a terrible surprise to us all. They had been married for six years. For months, Percy was a shadow of the man he had once been. And poor dear Sarah. She was only five and twenty.”
Ethel sighed deeply while her gaze darted around in quick scrutiny of their immediate surroundings. Apparently satisfied that no one could hear them, she leaned even closer to Letitia and whispered, “Her death was so unexpected that you shouldn’t be alarmed if you hear some ugly gossip about it. It was circulated in the neighborhood that Percy murdered her. No one will, of course, mention this to your face, but I know a great many conversations over tea were rife with speculation on the subject.”
What? Not only did Sir Percival have a mistress, but he had also murdered his wife? Had her father made the pact with Bluebeard? But instead of fear or revulsion, Letitia felt an unexpected twinge of compassion. No one knew better than she how far the gossipmongers’ flights of fancy could go.
She looked her neighbor straight in the eye. “Indeed? I am all ears, Ethel. What were they saying? Did he throw her out the window or stab her with a letter opener? Did she scratch his face beyond recognition?”
Lady Marsden opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. Bright red covered her cheeks, contrasting with both her dress and her hair.
“You are partial to him, aren’t you?” she said at last with some amazement.
Letitia preferred not to answer that question. Instead, she asked her own, “And do you believe this gossip? You said you have known him all his life, Ethel. Do you think him capable of such a crime? Do you think he could get away with it?”
Lady Marsden’s color intensified.
“No, of course I do not believe it.” She laughed, but her laughter seemed strained. “How could I? Yet he is a baronet, and a very wealthy one, representing an ancient family with a long history and influence in these parts. No one would dare question him openly. People always talk nonsense, you know. You should not be alarmed, my dear. I merely meant to prepare you in case such vile rumors ever reached your ears. But,” Ethel added, and this time her smile was very sweet, “I believe you have nothing to fear from him, even though the cause of Sarah’s uneasiness may still linger.”
She stared pointedly in the direction of the tables set up under the oak trees. Letitia followed Ethel’s gaze. Sir Percival and Mrs. Vernon stood there together, deep in conversation. As if on cue, Sir Percival offered Mrs. Vernon his arm before they walked off in the direction of the house.
An icy numbness spread in Letitia’s chest. So her intuition about the two of them was correct. Even worse, their liaison was no secret in the neighborhood. Her father’s sarcastic chuckle echoed in her head.
Letitia glanced at Ethel, who watched her intently, a faint smirk shaping her lips.
“Naturally,” Ethel continued, her face full of animation, “as soon as I heard these accusations about murder whispered, I vehemently denounced them as a vicious lie. Percy would have never hurt Sarah. I will always fight such vile gossip. No man was ever more devoted to his wife, even if he— Well, never mind. Let us hope it’s all in the past. Such deep grief as his is the best proof of his innocence.”
She squeezed Letitia’s hand as they resumed their walk.
“Well, my dear, do not let me ramble on about what is ancient history by now. This is a day for celebration, even if you are right about his reasons for marrying you. After all, I cannot imagine he could resist the prospect of getting back Wycombe Oaks.”
“Getting back Wycombe Oaks?” Letitia stopped again. “What do you mean by that?”
Lady Marsden returned the look of surprise. “You don’t know? Percy never told you? But the Earl of Stanville certainly must have done so.”
“Yes, my husband did,” Letitia replied, remembering Sir Percival’s words in the carriage. “I just never realized what he meant. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with augmenting one’s estates through marriage, if that’s what you mean.”
“Nothing indeed,” Lady Marsden agreed amiably. “Especially if one takes back in this fashion what had been his family’s before. But you didn’t know that,” she added with something like a triumph. “Wycombe Oaks was the Hanburys’ seat until Percy’s father sold it to your father when Percy was only a little boy. I don’t remember that, of course. No one knows what compelled Sir George to do so. I heard it was a very prosperous estate and he did not want for money.”
“He must have had his reasons,” Letitia said, stunned nonetheless to learn more details.
She recalled Sir Percival’s words—“your father gave me all I wanted”—and felt a brush of panic. That hideous ruin was her entire dowry? If Sir Percival agreed to that, he was certifiable. No wonder her father had not wanted to delay the nuptials by a minute once he’d secured such a brilliant solution to his daughter’s failure on the marriage mart.
But if all she brought in was a pile of stones and bricks with leaky roofs and broken windows, how much could she expect in pin money? She had estimated she would be able to save within a year for her and Josepha’s passages. But would she?
Chapter Nine
As if exhausted by the brilliant performance the day before, the skies were covered in heavy clouds generously dispensing curtains of water. Letitia overslept and ate breakfast alone. Sir Percival’s absence was a disappointment; she wanted to ask him about that pin money. But he couldn’t be anywhere outdoors, she mused, gazing at the fuzzy shapes of trees distorted by water running down the windowpanes. He might be in the library. This would give her an excuse to explore one of the two rooms Mrs. Waters excluded from the inventory—the other being Sir Percival’s bedchamber. Of course, that threshold she would never cross. But the library was a different story.
“Is Sir Percival home?” she asked the butler when he came to refill her cup.
“No, my lady.”
He left in this rain?
“Did he say when he would be back?”
Slater shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Thank you, Slater.” She smiled at him, despite the annoyance at Sir Percival’s absence. She might have to wait for an answer until tomorrow morning, if he failed to return for the night, as he had on a couple of occasions last week.
However, in his absence she could go to the library anyway. Nowhere in the house had she seen a portrait of her worshipped predecessor. It was impossible none had been made in six years of marriage. Sir Percival must have moved it to where he would see it most often, either the library or his bedchamber.
Letitia pushed away from the table and left the dining room.
Muffled sounds, barely audible in the main hall, intensified in the corridor leading to the library. The orangery, her future studio, lay behind the thick door at the corridor’s end. Mr. Petre had kept his promise. Despite the downpour, the gardeners were hard at work dismantling Sarah’s jungle.
Letitia stopped in front of the library door, took a deep breath, pressed the handle and walked inside.
The room stood empty, its silence augmented by the ticking of a clock and the uneven rhythm of rain against the windows. Above the smell of leather and paper, a gossamer of sandalwood scent floated in the air. It instantly brought the recollection of Sir Percival’s strong, large hands stopping her from the fall on the stairs, of the hard muscles of his arm even his fine coat could not disguise, and of that strange feeling splitting her body when she almost landed in his arms.
Letitia shook off the unruly images. She was here for a reason. Besides, considering what she had learned about him yesterday and the pattern of his absences, how could she let herself think such silly things? She took a deep breath, decidedly ignoring the faint presence of sandalwood, and looked around.
Though large, the library retained an inviting coziness about it. The shelves sagged under the weight of many tomes, while more books were piled up on tables. An overstuffed sofa sat diagonally near the large window at the far end, leaning against a table with two candleholders on top. Two smaller sofas supported each other, back to back, on the other side of the room. Busts of ancient philosophers on several small tables competed for space with the books piled up around them. A large desk in front of the fireplace presided over it all.