Over the next forty or so minutes, Julia threw herself into the task assigned her, while Phoebe continued to wonder about Regina’s plans, the reasons behind them, and the role she herself was expected to play in the coming days. She knew little about interior design and, other than an appreciation for the artistic value of paintings and furniture, could not have cared less. To her knowledge, Foxwood Hall had looked much the same for generations, with any changes having been so gradual as to hardly be noticed. She couldn’t fathom why it was so important to Regina to refurbish so quickly and completely.
Could Olive Asquith have anything to do with this redecorating frenzy? Taking in the woman’s less than flattering attire, Phoebe could hardly imagine the woman giving two figs about her surroundings. Then again, Miss Asquith’s suit spoke of a no-nonsense, utilitarian approach to life. Had she impressed the same outlook on Regina? Hence her talk of clean, flowing lines?
It was all very confusing, but of one thing Phoebe felt fairly certain. Something wasn’t quite right at High Head Lodge.
CHAPTER 2
Eva banged on Myra Stanley’s bedroom door with the side of her fist. “What are you doing? We’re needed downstairs. Now.” Lady Phoebe had called up a few minutes ago on the speaking tubes that connected their rooms to those below. The ladies were going shopping this morning and they wished to leave within the half hour.
“Yes, I know. I’ll come in a moment. I’m just . . .”
Her patience at its end, Eva tried the knob, only to find the door locked. She pounded again. “I’m going down without you, then. If Lady Julia asks—” The lock clicked and the door opened. Eva stepped back to let Miss Stanley out of the room, then took another backward lurch when she got a good look at her. “What have you done to yourself?” She leaned in closer. “Are you wearing cosmetics? Did you cut your hair?”
In the hour since they’d had their breakfast, Miss Stanley had transformed herself. The front of her hair, usually smoothed back in the same nondescript bun Eva wore, had been clipped into bangs that fell nearly into her eyes and heat-curled into frazzled spirals. Her lips were brighter, her eyes lined in black, and her cheeks each bore a splotch of rouge. Unless, of course, the other cosmetics had brought on a rash.
“You can’t go out like that.” Eva folded her arms in front of her. “What on earth are you thinking?”
“Are there laws against lady’s maids wanting to look their best on a trip into town?”
“Laws, perhaps not. But general rules of proper behavior and decorum, most certainly.” Eva dropped her arms to her sides and sighed. “And I’m sorry to have to tell you, but you don’t exactly look your best. Now, if you value your position in the Renshaw household, you’ll go scrub your face clean.” She reached out, fingering one of the curls that grazed Miss Stanley’s upper eyelids. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to be done about your hair for now. Perhaps Lady Julia won’t notice. But go on, take off that makeup and be quick about it.”
Miss Stanley reemerged five minutes later, her face freshly scrubbed. Eva hurried her at a run along the corridor and down the stairs to make up the time. They reached the first floor service landing, and as Eva opened the door, Miss Stanley came to an abrupt halt.
“Why doesn’t this house have a guest wing? Foxwood Hall has a guest wing. It seems rather untoward to accommodate the guests along the same corridor as the lady of the house.”
Eva suppressed a groan of frustration. “Untoward? In what way? What has come over you all of a sudden?” She seized Miss Stanley’s hand and tugged her along. “We’re late enough as it is.”
Miss Stanley brushed past her, hurried down the corridor, and disappeared into Lady Julia’s bedroom. As the door closed, Eva heard Lady Julia comment, “You look different, Stanley. Have you changed in some way?”
With a shake of her head, Eva continued to Lady Phoebe’s room at a more sedate, and dignified, pace. She had fixed Lady Phoebe’s hair earlier, and now Eva found her mistress nearly dressed as well. Lady Phoebe wore her silk chiffon today, with its layered hem, three-quarter sleeves, and high, ruched waistband. Eva buttoned the buttons down her back and helped her on with her jewelry, hat, and light summer gloves. Clear azure skies framed the trees outside the window, promising a lovely day with no threat of rain or chilly breezes—the perfect day for Phoebe’s newest ensemble from Selfridge’s.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my lady,” Eva said as she secured Phoebe’s hat, a sporty little affair with a narrow brim and a wide band, with a simple pearl stick pin.
“Not at all.” Phoebe turned toward the full-length mirror while Eva draped a nearly translucent wrap around her shoulders. “You did seem a bit out of breath when you arrived, though. Was there a problem?”
“No, everything is fine.”
Phoebe eyed her while Eva attempted to avoid her gaze. It was no good, however; she never could hide anything from Lady Phoebe. “Eva, what?”
She didn’t know whether to chuckle or frown as she confessed, “Miss Stanley was acting rather peculiar this morning.”
“Peculiar how?”
“Suffice it to say, you’ll understand when you see her. Although I’ve already intervened somewhat, much to her chagrin, I fear.”
With a little grin of speculation, Lady Phoebe narrowed her gaze on Eva. A knock sounded at the door and, holding a wide-brimmed hat in her hand, Miss Brockhurst poked her head in. “Are you ready, Phoebe?”
“Yes, all ready to go.”
“You, Julia, and Olive and I shall go in my car. I’ll drive. I’ve arranged for another car from the village for your maids.” She gestured at Eva with her chin. “I’ll go and see if Julia is ready. See you downstairs.”
Lady Phoebe stopped her with a question. “Aren’t you bringing your own maid?”
Regina scoffed, but good-naturedly. “I haven’t got one, goose, not anymore. I do for myself, and I have Olive to help me if I need her. Come along, then.” With that she sprang away with a light step. Phoebe turned to Eva.
“That’s rather peculiar, too, don’t you think?” She fingered the gold-encircled pearl hanging around her neck. “My cousin is planning to spend wildly to refurbish this house in the coming weeks, yet she no longer employs a lady’s maid?”
“Perhaps she’s economizing in some areas in order to afford her renovations.”
“Perhaps, but she assured Julia and me that she’s got, as she put it, ‘heaps’ of money. The bulk of her father’s fortune wasn’t part of the entail, and he left most of it to Regina.”
“I suppose she simply doesn’t want a maid, then.” Eva widened the bedroom door. “After you, my lady.”
They found Lady Julia and Myra Stanley waiting in the downstairs hall. Lady Julia appeared eager to go, her foot tapping with impatience. Miss Stanley, on the other hand, fidgeted and repeatedly darted her gaze at the staircase.
“We’ll wait outside,” Eva said to Phoebe, and walked past Miss Stanley to the front door. Miss Stanley hurried to follow her.
A four-door motorcar in shiny burgundy with a cream canvas roof sat on the drive, its sleek lines gleaming in the morning sunlight. Behind it, an ordinary sedan waited with its motor running. Eva went to stand beside the costly-looking convertible, undoubtedly Miss Brockhurst’s vehicle.
“Let’s wait in the other motorcar,” Miss Stanley suggested and pointed her feet in that direction.
“No,” Eva replied with a twinge of impatience, “we wait here in case the ladies need help getting into this motor.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose . . .”
Eva rounded on the woman. “What is wrong with you today that I must explain your job to you? Is there something on your mind? Anything you’d like to tell me?”
“No, everything is—”
Miss Stanley broke off as the front door opened. Her chin disappeared into the collar of her light cotton coat. The four ladies strolled out onto the drive, three of them chatting and laughing at something that had apparently been
said inside. Only Miss Asquith remained silent, looking, in Eva’s opinion, rather surly in her gray felt hat and another utilitarian suit. This one had a pleated skirt that swayed when Miss Asquith walked and sported smart black braid on the shoulders and cuffs of the jacket.
Lady Phoebe was the first to reach the motorcar. “Goodness, Regina, is this a Daimler?”
Her sister answered for their cousin. “It most certainly is, and the latest model unless my eyes deceive me. The automobile of kings,” Julia added with an appreciative lift of her eyebrows.
“It is pretty, isn’t it? I needed a mode of transportation living out here in the country, didn’t I? Why not the best?” Miss Brockhurst slipped an arm across Miss Asquith’s shoulders. The elaborate pin holding her wide hat in place glittered in the sunlight. “Shall we have the hood down today, Olive?”
“I nearly sprained my wrist the other day trying to help you fold the dratted thing down.”
“We’ll lose our hats with the hood down. Let’s just be off.” As Lady Julia approached the vehicle with a decisive stride, Eva opened the rear passenger door for her since Miss Stanley made no move to do so. Over her shoulder Lady Julia asked her cousin, “Where’s your driver?”
“You’re looking at her, of course.” Miss Brockhurst opened the driver’s door, but just before she slipped in, she stopped short, her gaze pinned on Miss Stanley, whose chin continued to seek refuge within her collar. She stared for a good long moment, until even Eva felt the urge to squirm. Finally, her eyes narrowed and she said, “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
Miss Stanley flinched, then shook her head. “I don’t believe so, miss.”
Eva would have sworn she spoke a half octave lower than her usual register.
“I think I do . . .” Miss Brockhurst compressed her lips, obviously searching her memory. Miss Stanley’s complexion drained of color, and suddenly Miss Brockhurst’s eyes widened and her nose flared. She drew back as if Miss Stanley had struck her. After a second or two her genteel mask fell back into place. “No, I must be mistaken. Never mind.” She slipped into the driver’s seat. “Shall we, ladies? Phoebe, Olive, are you coming or not?”
Miss Asquith circled the long, lustrous nose of the vehicle to the passenger side. Miss Stanley hurried over the second motor and all but dove in. Before Lady Phoebe climbed into the rear seat of the Daimler, she whispered to Eva, “What was that just about? If I didn’t know better, I’d think Miss Stanley attempted to don a disguise this morning so my cousin wouldn’t recognize her. Most peculiar.”
“Most,” Eva agreed.
* * *
Phoebe’s feet ached and her head throbbed. Beside her in the rear seat of Regina’s Daimler, Julia didn’t look as if she’d fared any better during their shopping trip to Bristol. Between them sat several parcels wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine: new shoes and a matching handbag for Phoebe; a silk shirtwaist, several pairs of stockings, a set of lace-edged handkerchiefs, and three pairs of gloves for Julia. Regina and Miss Asquith had a similar assortment of items between them in the front seat, the majority of them for Regina. They had also visited at least a half dozen drapers’ shops and furniture import stores.
It wasn’t so much the shopping that had brought on the ache behind Phoebe’s temples. It had been the bickering between Regina and Miss Asquith. Every time Regina had chosen an item for her new home, Miss Asquith raised an argument about why it was a bad choice. Too elaborate, too excessive, too expensive. Phoebe frowned at the memory. Despite Regina’s assertion that she wished to fill her new home with clean, modern lines, she nonetheless gravitated to more traditional designs. It seemed Miss Asquith had endless ideas on how Regina should and shouldn’t spend her money.
And that gave Phoebe pause . . .
At long last they turned onto the drive of High Head Lodge, and Phoebe yearned to retreat to her bedroom with a hot cup of tea and enjoy some quarrel-free moments to herself. As she stepped out of the Daimler, the motorcar carrying Eva and Miss Stanley turned up the service drive, and then a third motorcar puttered through the main gates and headed toward the house.
“Who is this, then?” Phoebe gestured at the approaching vehicle. “Are you expecting more company, Regina?”
“No, I am not.” Regina swung her feet to the ground and daintily stepped out of the Daimler. Her exquisite dragonfly hat pin, some three inches wide, equally long, and studded with diamonds, caught the sunlight in sharp, dazzling glints. Regina peered into the distance, her face taut. Miss Asquith climbed out of her side of the Daimler and went around to stand beside Regina. As the motorcar drew closer, they exchanged what Phoebe would call a horrified look. They groaned, and Regina said, “Quickly, everyone into the house.”
“What?” Phoebe found herself swept along with Julia and the others to the front door. “From whom are we running? Regina, what on earth is wrong? Why, that looks like . . .” She glanced again at the approaching motorcar, a prewar touring vehicle. There looked to be four passengers—two men and two women—including the driver. As they drew closer, Phoebe nodded in recognition. “Regina, that’s your mother, Hastings, and Verna. I can’t tell who is driving.”
Regina released a labored breath. “That’s Ralph Cameron, Father’s solicitor. Hastings’s solicitor now, I suppose. Please, everyone come inside and let’s shut the door.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Julia came down from the wide step before the front door. “Not to mention unconscionably rude. Really, Regina, what’s gotten into you?”
Gravel skidded from the motorcar’s thin tires as it veered around the circular drive to pull up behind the Daimler. No sooner had the vehicle lurched to a halt when the front and rear passenger doors burst open. Regina’s mother, Lady Mandeville, groped her way out of the front seat in something of a lather, while Regina’s younger brother, Hastings, rose unsteadily from the backseat as if exiting a boat on choppy waters.
“Regina Brockhurst, how dare you steal from the rest of us?” Swathed in full mourning from head to toe, Clarabelle Brockhurst, Lady Mandeville, shook a fist in the air. Regina did not favor her mother in looks at all. Though both women were tall, Regina stood in graceful, slender proportion, while her mother was stout of bosom, wide in the shoulders, and narrow through the hips, a figure reminiscent of a weight lifter’s. Unlike Regina with her sleek, ebony curls, Cousin Clarabelle sported coarse red hair shot through with silver, presently braided and coiled around her head beneath her black netted hat.
“Too late,” Miss Asquith murmured. “There is no running from this, Regina. You’ll have to deal with them this time.”
“This time?” Phoebe turned to scrutinize her cousin’s suddenly florid face. At the sound of gravel crunching, she turned back to the newly arrived visitors. Cousin Clarabelle was bearing down on them with an expression as black as her bombazine dress.
“You finally managed it, didn’t you, Regina? You’ve been manipulating your father for years, and you finally tricked him into changing his will. Why, you little conniving—”
The other two doors of the touring car opened. First out was Verna, Hastings’s wife, a thin, birdlike creature with a prominent nose and too little chin to balance things out. She, too, wore black, but of a lighter, more fashionable fabric than Cousin Clarabelle’s. The man who slipped out from behind the steering wheel must have been Mr. Ralph Cameron, their solicitor. He swept a bowler from his silver hair and hurried around the motor. “Clarabelle, please. Remember yourself.”
Cousin Clarabelle spun about. “Don’t tell me to remember myself, Ralph. Tell her.” Over her shoulder, she pointed at Regina with her thumb in a most unladylike gesture. “You know I’m right. You suspected yourself—”
“Clarabelle,” he interrupted tersely, “this is unproductive.” He focused beyond her to where Regina stood rigid on the front step. “Can’t we all go inside and discuss this calmly?”
“There is nothing to discuss,” Regina fired back. She clutched Olive’s hand as if, well
, Phoebe thought, as if it were a weapon of sorts.
“Indeed there is, sister.” Hastings Brockhurst tossed his own bowler through the open rear door onto the car seat. His mother’s red hair had asserted itself in her son, lending him thick auburn waves that flashed brightly in the sun. His currently ruddy complexion clashed unattractively, Phoebe couldn’t help but notice. “You turned Father against me. Against Mother, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I did no such thing.” Regina stepped down and strode several paces toward her family, though whether she realized she pulled Olive along with her, Phoebe couldn’t be sure. Olive made no attempt to free herself from Regina’s grip, but remained firmly beside her like a comrade in arms. “I didn’t need to, Hastings. Father saw you for what you are. A carouser and a reckless gambler. Not to mention—”
“Oh!” Verna Brockhurst scurried around to stand by her husband. When he made no move to acknowledge her, she flicked a hand at his elbow, which he then proffered in what seemed an automatic response. “How dare you speak so of my husband, Regina.”
“Yes, well, I’m sorry to have to say it, Verna, but you know I’m right. Father no more trusted Hastings with his fortune than he’d trust a complete stranger. In fact, I’m quite sure he’d have trusted a stranger more.”
Verna bristled. “Hastings, are you going to let her get away with that?”
Red-faced, he sputtered in an attempt to reply. Verna shook her head with a scowl.
“Even if your father didn’t fully trust your brother,” Cousin Clarabelle shouted, “I’m sure he didn’t mean for you to abscond with the entire fortune. He would have wanted you to take care of the rest of us. He—”
“Never said a word to me about anything,” Regina said more calmly. “I therefore see no reason to second-guess his intentions. Good day to you all.” She pivoted on the toe of her ivory T-strap shoe and headed toward the house.
A Devious Death Page 3