Death at Epsom Downs

by Robin Paige

Charles lowered his newspaper. “Something else?”

  “It’s a note from Mrs. Langtry,” Kate said, scanning it. “She’s invited me to stay with her at Regal Lodge, at Kentford, near Newmarket. She writes, ‘Since I’ve decided to go forward with the stage adaptation of your story, I believe our time together could be most productive. My cottage is small, but I am delighted to share it with you. Come as soon as you can.’ ”

  Charles was nonplused. He wasn’t aware that his wife knew the actress. “Lillie Langtry? A stage adaptation? What story?”

  Kate frowned at him over the top of her reading glasses. “I suppose you’ve been too engrossed in that racing business to recall that I met Mrs. Langtry at the Derby and that she expressed an interest in producing ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma.’ ”

  “Good Lord,” Charles said, abashed at not remembering. “Isn’t that the story about the stolen sapphires? The one you so indelicately modeled after the so-called theft of Lady Marsden’s emeralds?”

  “Yes,” Kate replied ruefully. “In the story, the duchess needed money to pay her debts, so she pawned her jewels, then staged their theft to conceal what she’d done. When a thief actually did steal them, she tracked him down and got them back.” With a smile, she added, “The duchess is quite a strong character. Mrs. Langtry, of course, wants to play her.”

  Charles chuckled. Lillie Langtry’s range as an actress was notoriously limited, and she was known for choosing roles that allowed her to play herself—or rather, to play herself as she imagined herself, which was not at all the same thing. “I’m surprised that she doesn’t find your fiction a little too close to the facts,” he remarked.

  “Really?” Kate asked curiously. “In what way?”

  “Just about the time you came to England, Mrs. Langtry’s jewels—forty thousand pounds’ worth—were taken from the vault at the Union Bank. The thief presented a note bearing her name. The signature subsequently proved to be copied from the Pearl Soap advertisement that carries her personal endorsement. It wasn’t even a very good forgery, as it turned out.”

  “Then why in the world,” Kate exclaimed, “would she have anything to do with ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma’? It’s a story of course, a fiction—but some people might take it for truth and believe that she took the jewels herself!”

  “Why would she want to stage it?” Charles shrugged. “Perhaps because she wants to profit from her own notoriety.”

  “Well, there’s certainly plenty of that,” Kate said in an ironic tone. “The woman is featured in the newspapers almost every week. A few years ago, there were all those reports about her American divorce, and then there was Mr. Langtry’s mysterious death.” She looked back at the note, her pretty face drawn into a frown. “Why do you suppose she’s interested in my story?”

  “Who knows?” Charles said. “As Oscar Wilde says, ‘we live in an age where people use art as a form of autobiography.’ ” He knew his wife, and he knew that she didn’t seek public attention. “Do you want her to stage the story?”

  “I’m not at all sure I like the idea,” Kate said thoughtfully. “But now that I’ve heard about the theft of her jewels, I must admit to being curious about Mrs. Langtry and her interest in ‘The Duchess.’ Perhaps I’ll accept her invitation after all. I’ve just been asked to write an article for The Strand, and she would make a fascinating subject. If she’ll allow me to write about her, that is.”

  “Allow you to write about her? I’m sure she’ll be thrilled at the prospect of seeing herself in print one more time, especially with Beryl Bardwell’s name on the piece.” Charles raised an eyebrow. “But you and Beryl should perhaps be a little careful, Kate. Mrs. Langtry’s sporting friends are not quite as well-mannered as she. I suggest that you take Amelia. She might keep you from getting into trouble.”

  He had meant the remark as a joke, but Kate took it seriously. “I shall certainly ask Amelia to go with me,” she said, “and I’ll write to Mrs. Langtry and ask if she will give me an interview for publication.” She slanted him a look. “I hope you don’t mind that I go.”

  Charles grinned wryly. “Would it do me any good?” Then, seeing her face, he added hastily, “I don’t mind in the slightest, my dear. I myself must go to Newmarket, on the racing business I told you about. I shouldn’t like to intrude on your stay with Mrs. Langtry, but at least I’ll be in the vicinity, if you need—” Charles broke off at the sound of a motorcar clattering up the drive.

  Kate turned her head, listening. “That must be Bradford and his friend, come to luncheon.” She stood up and went to the parapet as Bradford Marsden’s new yellow Panhard pulled into view. “I wonder what she looks like.”

  Smiling at his wife’s curiosity, Charles laid his newspaper aside and joined her at the parapet, watching as the Panhard jolted to a stop and its passengers began to disembark. “She’s a little dusty,” he said critically. “Could do with a wash. And that front left headlamp—”

  Kate swatted his arm. “Not the motorcar—the girl, silly. Bradford’s fiancée. Her name is Edith Hill.”

  “Oh, that one,” Charles said. He peered over Kate’s shoulder. “Looks like a regular girl to me. Not too much hat, I’m pleased to—” He stopped, staring intently. “Is that an ankle I see? By Jove, it’s an ankle!”

  “It is!” Kate exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “Bradford Marsden has engaged himself to a woman who wears rational dress!”

  “So he has,” Charles muttered with rueful irony, shaking his head. “And we all know what comes of rational dress. Women earning their way in the world, insisting on managing their own property, and—heaven help us—claiming a right to the vote.”

  Kate smiled archly. “Well, I’ve achieved two of the three, and the franchise will come, like it or not. There are some things, my dearest love, that you shall simply have to get used to.” She smiled to show that she was teasing and tugged at his sleeve. “Now, come away from the parapet. We’ll have plenty of time for inspection during luncheon.”

  Affectionately, Charles watched Kate return to her chair, admiring the shining russet hair pinned in loose twists around her head, her firm-featured face, the confident lift of her chin, the frank, open smile whose radiance invariably dazzled him. She was a lovely woman, he thought, grown even more lovely now that she was past thirty. But what he most admired about her could not be seen at first glance: her literary talent, of course, which never ceased to amaze him; but also her stubborn Irish-American desire for independence, so at odds with the English woman’s acceptance of her place; and her zealous determination to help other women achieve what independence they could. And, not least, her ability to tolerate the unhappy situation his mother’s bitter intolerance had created.

  The thought of the dowager Lady Somersworth made Charles sigh heavily. He had recently made one of his regular visits to the family estate in Norwich, where his mother lived—or rather, where she was dying of a cancer in her breast. Having outlived a husband and elder son, the third and fourth barons of Somersworth, she emphatically reminded the fifth baron each time she saw him that she did not intend to die until he had produced an heir. During the last visit, Charles had finally told her the truth: that Kate’s first pregnancy had also been her last. There would be no children.

  At this, Lady Somersworth set her mouth. “Well,” she said bitterly, “what did you expect? She’s Irish, and the Irish are always sickly. No constitution at all.”

  “Mother—” Charles began, in a warning tone.

  “I’m not disappointed,” Lady Somersworth snapped. “Ever since I learned that hers is the pen behind those dreadful Bardwell fictions, I’ve been too humiliated to hold up my head in Society. If you take my advice, Charles, you will seek an immediate divorce from this person, whatever the cost.”

  “Divorce?” Charles tried for a joking tone. “But think of the scandal, Mother.”

  “Scandal?” Lady Somersworth’s laugh was bitter. “The scandal of divorce is pale as a ghost in comparison to the scand
al of your marriage, Charles. Free yourself from her and choose a woman of your own class. Then you can pass Somersworth to sons who are not part”—her nostrils flared and she turned her head aside, as if from a disagreeable odor—“Irish.”

  At that, Charles had stalked out and taken the next train home to Bishop’s Keep. The bitter old woman could die alone, as far as he was concerned, and the Somersworth title with her. And when she was gone, he had an entirely new plan for the family estates—one that would send his dowager mother spinning in her grave.

  The French doors opened, and Hodge, the butler, stepped onto the terrace. “Lord Bradford Marsden,” he announced, “and Miss Edith Hill.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kate and Edith

  In the late 1890’s, a growing number of women began to consider agriculture as a career. In 1898, the Countess of Warwick opened a horticultural college which eventually enrolled 146 students, a quarter of whom had small holdings of their own. Lady Warwick hoped to establish cooperative settlements of “unmarrying women” who would share a cottage and manage their market farm as a partnership.

  “Country Women in Victorian England”

  Susan Blake

  Luncheon had been quite interesting, Kate thought, as she waited for Edith to return from freshening up. Bradford Marsden’s fiancée was radically different from the other ladies he had brought to Bishop’s Keep. For one thing, she earned her living as a private secretary. For another, she was not only effervescent and strikingly attractive, but obviously bright and energetic and practical, with a strong sense of direction and perhaps (although this was hard to gauge on a first meeting) an equally strong sense of personal ambition. While Bradford’s other companions had aspired to become the mistress of Marsden Manor, Edith seemed ambitious to achieve something for herself.

  “Shall we go into the garden?” Kate asked when Edith had returned. “The horticulture students are working there, and I thought you might like to see what they’re doing.”

  “Horticulture students?” Edith asked, falling into step beside Kate. She was tall and dark-haired, with dark eyes and firm dark brows. She wore a becoming walking suit of gray serge with a white blouse, the jacket tailored, the skirt smoothly gored and pleated for easy movement, cut above the ankles, revealing handsome gray boots.

  “They are enrolled in my School for the Useful Arts,” Kate said, “which is organized after the model of Lady Warwick’s.” The school had been a dream for a long time, evolving slowly into a plan that seemed to Kate to be achievable and also to hold great promise—which didn’t keep others from mocking it as idealistic and doomed to failure, of course.

  They stepped off the terrace and onto the garden path, bordered by June flowers and fragrant with lavender and bergamot. “Who are your students?” Edith asked. “How many are there?”

  “Just a dozen now,” Kate said. “We admit only women, who come daily from the neighboring villages. But I’ve purchased some land from Bradford, and as soon as the cottages are repaired, we will begin accepting boarding students.” She paused beside a break in the hedge and pointed toward the kitchen garden, where several women were weeding the young peas. “Mr. Humphries, the head gardener, teaches horticulture, and I’ve just employed a woman who is skilled in dairying and beekeeping. In a few weeks, Mrs. Grieve will come and teach a course in herb-growing. As enrollment warrants, I also plan to add a master to assist in poultry and orchard management. I’m afraid it’s rather an ambitious project,” she added ruefully, “but I’m determined to see it succeed. The goal is to give these women skills that will enable them to earn their own living in rural areas.”

  “What an exciting idea!” Edith exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “Everyone complains that the land is going out of cultivation because there’s no one to farm it, and yet there’s not nearly enough fresh produce in the shops. If your graduates can gain a living by market gardening, there will be no need for them to work in the factories. Oh, Kate, I do applaud you! What a noble effort!”

  Kate smiled. “Thank you—although I’m not sure how noble it is. But it breaks my heart to see the land so empty, and so many women wanting paid work. I feel I must do what I can.” She paused and added curiously, “Tell me more about what you do, Edith. You said that you work for Mr. Cecil Rhodes?”

  “I’m employed in the London offices of the Rhodesian Mining Consortium,” Edith replied. “Mr. Rhodes is my godfather, and I am his personal secretary. That is, I handle his calendar and all his correspondence. I type and take shorthand, and I translate English into German and French where necessary. I even write letters over my own signature, with Mr. Rhodes’s approval, of course.” She smiled proudly.

  “It sounds like a position with some very real authority,” Kate remarked. She herself had come to England to serve as her aunt’s secretary, and knew what a fortunate thing that had been.

  “It is,” Edith replied. “And of course, there’s all sorts of intrigue just now, with the shameful way the Boers are treating the Uitlanders, and that ugly business about the franchise.” Her chin had a determined tilt. “I hope the government will send troops and settle things quickly. The honor of the Empire is at stake. We simply must not give in to those barbaric Boers!”

  Kate thought that Edith’s views on the subject reflected those of Mr. Rhodes, with whom she and Charles did not at all agree. Since it was not likely she could change Edith’s mind, she changed the subject. “Do you and Bradford plan a long engagement? Where will the wedding be held?”

  Edith’s face grew tense and there was a strain in her voice. “We mean to be married soon and simply. We had hoped Lady Marsden would be agreeable to a summer wedding at a small church near my mother’s home at Newmarket. But we haven’t been able to discuss the wedding with her. She dislikes me so intensely that she has not come down to dinner in the two days I’ve been there.”

  “Oh, dear,” Kate murmured. She wasn’t surprised. Lady Marsden intended that Bradford should marry a woman of means, whose fortune could be used to repay the family’s mortgages and replenish their empty coffers. Edith was an educated gentlewoman—she had attended Girton College, Kate had learned at lunch. But that didn’t alter the fact that she had to work to live. And a working woman was not the kind of wife that Lady Marsden had imagined for her only son.

  Edith frowned. “I am not sorry for myself,” she said decidedly. “As far as I am concerned, Lady Marsden may think as she likes. But Bradford must feel her disapproval keenly. I wish there was something I could do to change her opinion of me.”

  Under Edith’s firm tone, Kate could hear the pain and heartache in her voice. She appreciated the girl’s unhappiness, because she herself had had to learn how to live with a similarly painful situation. Thinking that Edith might be helped by hearing about her experience, she briefly related her unhappy relationship with Lady Somersworth.

  “I should make my own wedding plans if I were you, Edith,” she added gently, “and let Lady Marsden make whatever peace she can with the situation. You and Bradford must please yourselves, not anyone else.” She might have added that Lady Marsden had already meddled unforgivably in the lives of her daughters, Eleanor and Patsy, and that she constantly interfered in Bradford’s life. It was not likely that the woman would ever be pleased.

  Edith turned, her dark eyes searching Kate’s face, and some of the tension went out of her voice. “Thank you,” she said simply. “You’ve given me courage, Kate.” She squared her shoulders. “I do hope that you and Lord Charles can attend the wedding.”

  “It will be at Newmarket, then?” Kate remembered Mrs. Langtry’s invitation. “Of course, we should love to attend. As it happens, I’ll be staying at Kentford myself, for two or three days. If you’re at your mother’s, perhaps we shall see one another.”

  “I’d like that,” Edith said. “I’d like that very much!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Charles and Bradford

  Agricultural land by itself could no longer s
ustain landed society in the social role which had become traditional. To secure an adequate income, other strategies needed to be adopted—including the making of advantageous marriages with social outsiders and becoming involved, in unprecedented ways, in the world of business and finance.

  Corruption in British Politics, 1895–1930

  G. R. Searle

  I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don’t depend on that for my real income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only people who make anything out of it.

  Jack, in The Importance of Being Earnest

  Oscar Wilde

  Charles and Bradford had gone to the small smoking room for an after-lunch smoke and conversation. Bradford settled in one chair with his cigar, Charles with his pipe in the other. Bradford eyed his friend curiously, noticing the lines of tension around the mouth, half-hidden behind the brown beard.

  “Well, what’s on your mind, Sheridan?” he asked. “You could scarcely eat for wanting to talk about it, but you didn’t say a word.”

  “I thought it might bore Miss Hill,” Charles said, filling his pipe. While he tamped it down, he told Bradford what had happened at the Derby—the catastrophe at Tattenham Corner, and the death of Johnny Bell—and afterwards, with the stewards. “I’m afraid I had no choice but to agree to look into the affair,” he concluded ruefully. “Since they had already consulted H.R.H., I could hardly say no.”

  Bradford frowned. “It was Hunt’s horse that’s suspected of being doped to win? I shouldn’t have thought Reggie would go for that sort of thing. But of course, after taking that big loss on Tarantula last year, he might be willing to try almost anything to recoup.” His frown deepened. “And I had no idea, Charles, that you knew enough about racing to—”