by Sharon Sobel
“I only believe what I know to be true. The lady is dead, and we have been asked to remain.” He held up his hand before the marquess could bluster back a protest. “However, I promise that I will speak with Lady Priscilla about your concerns, but don’t expect her to accede to your wishes.”
“Thank you, Hathaway. I trust you to watch out for Miss Flanders.”
“Good.” He slapped the young man’s shoulder. “Now let us get back inside before they find us frozen to death out here.”
Witherspoon nodded and walked out into the snow that fell aimlessly. He stopped, turning to face Neville. “But be aware that I will never let any harm come to Miss Flanders. No matter what may occur.” He walked away.
Neville cursed under his breath. Such youthful zeal and determination could create problems where there had not been any. Mayhap convincing Pris and the children to leave Symmington Hall might not be a bad idea.
If only he had any idea how . . .
Chapter Six
PRISCILLA LOOKED around the large parlor. The Symmingtons’ guests had gathered together in the grand light-yellow room, as their hosts had requested. The guests sat or stood as motionless as the dour portraits on the walls. Every face was taut, and she could have sworn that the whole group breathed in and out as one. The manic curiosity from that afternoon had faded into numb disbelief.
Even Daphne, who stood next to her brother and sister, wore a blank expression. She had not glanced once in Lord Witherspoon’s direction.
Priscilla knew her eldest was horrified by what had happened in the midst of what should be merriment, but Daphne also was unhappy about the idea of leaving Symmington Hall immediately. She had not said a word when Neville had returned from his conversation with Lord Witherspoon. In fact, she had not uttered a single word from that moment to this, several hours later. Priscilla suspected that her elder daughter would not have been so reticent if Neville had revealed to Daphne that Lord Witherspoon had vowed to protect her forever, but Neville had wisely not mentioned that pledge. Daphne would have been even more loath to depart.
Even more amazing than that was the fact that Lord Eastbridge and Miss Baldwin had joined the other guests in the parlor. The late countess’s companion sat in a shadowed corner among a half dozen large plants while the earl had chosen a chair close to the hearth. The fingers of his right hand twitched, and Priscilla suspected he wished that he had a glass of something mind-quelling in them.
Only one face in the room was not expressionless. Aunt Cordelia sat in a chair beside Priscilla’s, and she wore her most outraged scowl. Her eyes shifted from Lord Eastbridge to the door. That warned Priscilla that her aunt was vexed about two matters. Propriety demanded that the widower should be focused on making arrangements for his wife’s burial, not for him to be seated among guests who had been preparing for a Twelfth Night assembly. And Aunt Cordelia had no patience with anyone who disregarded the demands of propriety, as Priscilla had learned firsthand often.
When Neville had whispered that Duncan should have arrived before dark, Priscilla assumed the other reason her aunt was annoyed was his failure to appear as he had promised. Priscilla could not try to soothe her aunt because any explanation other than the truth would sound feeble. Telling her aunt about Duncan’s gift could start another uproar that Priscilla wished to avoid.
A rumble went through the gathering, and all heads—save for the ones in the paintings—turned at the same time toward the door. Lord Symmington entered with his wife and daughter on either side of him.
The baron was a man who commanded any room he entered. He was strikingly handsome, and his clothes accented his brawny limbs. One look revealed that he was a man who enjoyed a sportsman’s life of riding and shooting, as well as other sports. Beside him, his wife and daughter appeared fragile and pale, and they seemed to fade into the background.
“Friends,” Lord Symmington said in his booming voice, “thank you for gathering here under these sad circumstances. I know I speak for everyone when I express our sympathies to Lord Eastbridge.”
The earl nodded, but said nothing.
“As you have realized,” Lord Symmington continued, “Lady Eastbridge’s untimely death means that entertainments planned for Twelfth Night must now be canceled. We—”
“Wait!” called a voice from the corridor. “I must speak to Lord Eastbridge. Immediately!”
The Symmingtons turned as one, then stepped back to allow Jeannette into the room. Lady Eastbridge’s abigail looked neither left nor right. She walked directly to where Lord Eastbridge sat.
He stared at her as if she were a phantom risen from a grave. His eyes got larger with each step she took toward him.
“May I speak about Lady Eastbridge’s dearest last wish?” Jeannette asked.
“Here?” he choked out.
“Yes, if I may, my lord, because Lady Eastbridge’s last wish was that the Twelfth Night entertainments not be canceled.”
Gasps exploded from every corner of the room, but none louder than from where Miss Baldwin had been sitting. The companion was now on her feet, her hands pressed to her face.
Priscilla jabbed Neville with her elbow and whispered, “Someone needs to be close to that young woman. She has shown a propensity for swooning.”
He started to stand, but sat again when Miss Baldwin resumed her seat. “She should not do herself any damage if she loses her senses while sitting.”
“Are you certain that my late wife wanted the masquerade to be held, Jeanette?” asked Lord Eastbridge before Priscilla could respond to Neville’s comment.
The maid nodded. “Quite certain, my lord.” She reached into her apron and drew out a slip of paper. “She asked me to give this to you if you doubted me.”
Lord Eastbridge took it in quaking hands. In fact, his hands shook so hard, he could not unfold it. Turning, he held it out. Aunt Cordelia reached for it, but he stretched past her hand and toward Priscilla. “Could you please read what it says? I fear I am too discomposed.”
Standing, Priscilla accepted the note. She was glad Neville had set himself on his feet, too. He stood close to the earl, ready to catch the older man in case the widower collapsed again. She gave her aunt a sympathetic smile, but it was to no avail. Aunt Cordelia’s vexation was focused once again on Priscilla, even though nothing that had occurred was of her doing.
Priscilla decided she must ignore her aunt’s botheration. Later, she would apologize to her aunt, but for now, Priscilla must help the earl as he had asked. She opened the page and scanned it. She sensed everyone leaning toward her as if they could see through the thick paper and read the words themselves.
The note was short and to the point. It stated simply in the countess’s florid flourishes that Lady Eastbridge had decided to forgive the baroness for her faux pas, and the countess wished for the masquerade to go ahead, no matter what. Priscilla shivered when she read, If today is my last, I do not want to go to my eternal sleep with conflicts unresolved.
“What does it say?” asked Lady Symmington, then blushed at her outburst.
Priscilla looked at Lord Eastbridge, and he nodded. She read the few lines aloud, then handed the page to the earl. Stepping back, she watched Neville and Jeannette help Lord Eastbridge to sit in his chair. The earl looked as if he had aged a decade during the moments while Priscilla read.
Neville motioned for Priscilla to sit, then took his place beside her. Bending close, he whispered, “Do you think she had a premonition of her own death?”
Priscilla glanced at him in astonishment. Keeping her voice as hushed as his, she said, “You are being ghoulish again!”
“I thought I was being logical. Clearly the countess believed her time was drawing to a close, so she wrote the note to express her final wishes.”
“That is not an image I want in my head.”
�
��Forgive me, Pris. I am simply trying to make sense of these events.”
“I am not certain you can. The whole of it seems nonsensical to me.”
In the doorway, Lord Symmington shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “What do you think we should do?”
Nobody answered, and Priscilla understood. Who wanted to be the first to deny a dead woman’s last wish? Who wanted to be the first to suggest dancing while the countess’s body was returned to her family crypt for burial? Everyone looked at everyone else at the same time they were trying to avoid anyone from catching their eye.
Beside her, Aunt Cordelia sniffed her disbelief. “He is our host,” she said under her breath. “Why would he ask us?”
Then every voice seemed to find its life at once. Priscilla wanted to put her hands up over her ears. Her face must have revealed her thoughts because Neville stood, took her by the hand, motioned to the children and led them away from the middle of the room. Aunt Cordelia did not notice them leaving because she was trying to explain to several shouting guests that the decision was not theirs. Neville did not pause until they were separated from the arguing guests by a potted plant.
“What a muddle!” he said.
A small gasp came from the shadows, and Miss Baldwin jumped to her feet. Neville started to apologize for intruding on her corner, but Lady Eastbridge’s companion rushed away, weaving through the crowd. Her exit was hampered by the fact that everyone had come to their feet.
Priscilla said, “Let her go. Poor thing.”
“I had hoped for some answers to explain why she looks familiar,” Neville said, “But now is not the time. She is clearly distraught at her lady’s death.”
“Far more than that maid Jeannette,” announced Daphne with a frown. “Do you think she waited until the exact moment when her words could have the greatest effect?”
Before Priscilla could scold her for such cold words, Neville said, “It is quite possible, Daphne. She could not have timed her entrance better if she had been given a cue to step onto the stage. At no time could the revelation of a letter from the late countess have made a greater impact than just now.”
“Listen to the two of you,” Priscilla said. “You are judging that maid without any facts to support you.”
“Except what is happening now.”
“Yes, there is that.” She looked at her children. “I believe we should withdraw.”
“But, Mama,” interjected Leah, “it is fun to watch argol-bargol adults.”
“Argol-bargol?” Priscilla asked, astonished. “What does that mean?”
Her daughter looked proud that she had stumped her mother. “It’s a word from Scotland. Mr. McAndrews taught it to us.”
“He said,” piped up her son, “that it means having a huge argument.” He chuckled. “And they are. Do you think someone will give someone else a facer?”
Priscilla frowned at her husband. She was quite certain where Isaac had heard that vulgar cant.
Putting one hand on Isaac’s shoulder and another on Leah’s, Neville said, “I think your mother is right. We should withdraw immediately.”
“And miss the fun?” asked Isaac.
Abruptly Neville was as somber as an old stick in the mud. “Never forget, any of you, that a woman has died.” He looked steadily at each one in turn. “Go ahead, Pris. We will follow you out like a group of ducklings.”
“No!” Daphne shook her head. “I cannot leave her stalking Burke as if he were the fox. Blast her!” She stormed back toward the center of the room where Miss Symmington struggled to make her way to where Lord Witherspoon was trying to calm two older women.
Priscilla gestured toward the door and asked Neville to take the younger children up to their rooms. “I will retrieve Daphne before she does something harebrained.” Gathering up her skirt, she went after her older daughter.
If she had not known better, Priscilla would have accused their hosts of arranging for their guests to keep her from catching up with Daphne. She knew it was as simple as nobody was stopping Daphne to ask her opinion. However, each person wanted to know Priscilla’s thoughts about Lady Eastbridge’s last request and try to persuade Priscilla to share their opinions.
At least a dozen people stood between Priscilla and her daughter when Daphne reached the spot where Miss Symmington was trying to monopolize Lord Witherspoon’s attention, taking it away from the two older women. She could not hear what her daughter was saying, but color burst forth on Miss Symmington’s face. The marquess looked both embarrassed and amused to be at the center of attention of so many females.
The embarrassment must have won out because Lord Witherspoon said quite loudly, “I have heard enough of this debate!” He strode toward the door. Their host had abandoned it and now could be found at the far side of the room, pouring himself something from a decanter.
The guests faced him, shocked into silence once again.
“May I suggest,” Lord Witherspoon asked as he paused in the doorway, “that we retire for the night and consider the lady’s last request? Nothing can be done further tonight, for the hour is late.”
Miss Symmington edged toward him, but halted when her mother put a hand on her arm.
Lady Symmington said from near Lord Eastbridge’s chair, “I will have your supper delivered to your rooms. Please join us for breakfast tomorrow.”
There were some uneasy grumbles, but the guests seemed to agree with the suggestions of both the marquess and Lady Symmington. As the guests began leaving the parlor, they spoke in hushed tones.
Suddenly, footfalls came toward the parlor. Duncan McAndrews appeared in the doorway, smiling and wiping snow off the dark shoulders of his greatcoat. He scanned the room, and his smile widened when his gaze alighted on Aunt Cordelia. Ignoring everyone around him, he crossed the room and caught her hands in his. He gave them a squeeze, before lifting one, then the other to his lips.
“You are a sight for loving eyes, my dear,” he said in his charming brogue. “Forgive me for being late. I had to arrange for a surprise at your house, a Twelfth Night gift unlike any other. I cannot wait for you to see it. I . . .” As his voice trailed off, he looked around at the crowd staring at him.
Only then did he seem to notice the bleak atmosphere in the room. He glanced at Priscilla and asked, “What did I miss?”
Chapter Seven
NEVILLE OPENED the door to the suite he and Priscilla shared with the children. When he had decided to linger in the sitting room in order to speak to both Eastbridge and Symmington, she knew he had expected to have some questions answered. She suspected, from his grim expression that, after speaking with them, he had obtained no answers . . . and now had more questions.
“Alas and alack,” Duncan was saying over and over as he paced in the suite’s main room.
“Duncan, do sit down and eat before your supper grows cold,” urged Aunt Cordelia, who had obviously elected to join them for the evening meal that had been delivered by several silent maids. “No matter what else I might say about the Symmingtons, they have hired a cook who is a genius.” She popped a piece of chicken into her mouth.
“Why didn’t you stop me from making an ass of myself?” Duncan demanded, pausing in front of Neville. “How could you just stand there and let me say something beef-headed?”
“We were on the other side of the room.” Neville took his friend by the arm and steered him to sit next to Aunt Cordelia where his plate waited, untouched. He glanced at Priscilla, then looked from her to her aunt and back. She nodded, and he smiled. He now knew that she would curb her curiosity while the rest of her family was present. As if he did not have a care in the world, he said in a jesting tone, “Duncan, you may atone to the Symmingtons and Lord Eastbridge on the morrow, assuming you eat well tonight and don’t sicken from hunger.”
“‘Tis not
food I need, but a wee drink.” His voice was mournful. “As a proper Scotsman, it is my duty to raise a glass to the late lady’s soul. That way, she will know that I meant no disrespect to her or her household.”
Neville reached for the bottle of wine that had been delivered along with the roasted chicken.
“Nae,” Duncan said, his accent deepening along with his morose spirits. “Froggy wine will not do at a time like this. What a Scotsman truly needs in this situation is a fine mountain-dew.” When Neville regarded him, puzzled, he said, “Whisky, my boy!”
Priscilla stood and went to the door. Seeing a servant in the hall, she called to him. The man hurried to ask what she needed. She sent the man to collect the bottle that Duncan always carried with him. “You will find it packed between his shirts.” She shut the door.
“How do you know that?” asked Duncan with astonishment.
Aunt Cordelia looked daggers at her.
Priscilla resisted rolling her eyes as if she were no older than her daughters. Her aunt had no reason to be jealous of Priscilla. With a serene smile, she said, “Each time you have paid us a visit at Mermaid Cottage or in Town, Gilbert assures me that he has instructed a footman to unpack your clothes with care. The first time, your bottle of whisky almost was sacrificed for our ignorance of its existence.”
“A brilliant woman.” Duncan smiled at Neville. “You did well to leg-shackle yourself to her, my boy.”
“I think so.” Neville took her hand and brought her back to sit beside him. “Now eat up, Duncan, before you fade away.”
The shorter man complied only when Aunt Cordelia seconded Neville’s request. Silence settled on them, save for a knock when Duncan’s bottle was delivered. The weight of the day’s events sat heavily on their shoulders and in their hearts. The children agreed to go to their rooms and get ready for bed. Without a protest, they rose, said their good nights and went to the doors to their rooms.
Daphne paused long enough to whisper to her mother, “Did Uncle Neville reveal what Burke told him earlier?”