“Yes, well. Julia won’t be budged, and I can’t see going home without her. Grams would have all kinds of fits. Besides, Julia reminded me that Regina insisted we stay as . . . oh, I don’t know . . . reinforcements, I suppose. She wants to keep her side even with her family’s.”
“This solicitor you mentioned.” Eva gathered up the extra hairpins lying on the tabletop. “He’s on the family’s side in all this mess?”
“Good question. He seems to be taking a neutral position in the interest of restoring familial harmony, but as you and I well know, appearances can be deceiving.” She surveyed herself in the full-length mirror and gave a brisk nod. “I should be going down now.”
“What wouldn’t I give to be a fly on the wall in that dining room.” Eva opened the bedroom door and stood aside for Lady Phoebe to pass.
“Why, Eva, are you developing a taste for gossip?” She treated Eva to a teasing grin.
“Not gossip, my lady. But I’ll say it again. This house is no place for you. I should like to be on hand in the event violence breaks out.”
“Don’t worry. If I see any fists flying, I’ll run for cover.”
Lady Phoebe met her sister in the corridor and they fell into step together. Lady Julia chuckled. “Are you ready for the next round?”
Eva would have been a lot happier if they could all stop referring to this visit in terms of war and fighting. She closed Lady Phoebe’s bedroom door and watched the Renshaw sisters turn a corner and disappear from sight, remarking inwardly what lovely women they had become, but better still, how well they had been getting on since the spring. They would likely never share the kind of closeness Eva enjoyed with her sister, Alice; they had been inseparable growing up and never kept a single secret from each other. But to see Phoebe and Julia simply being cordial, even joking together, warmed Eva’s heart.
A noise from inside Lady Julia’s room drew Eva to the threshold. She cracked open the door and peeked in to find Myra Stanley sitting at the dressing table.
Sitting! And gazing at herself in the mirror as though she were the mistress of a great house.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Miss Stanley turned her head only slightly and shrugged. “Can’t a girl rest her feet a moment?”
“At your mistress’s dressing table? Leaning on your elbows like that?”
Miss Stanley sat up straighter. “I’m not hurting anything.” She fingered the filigreed back of Lady Julia’s silver hairbrush, then picked it up and lightly skimmed it over her frazzled bangs.
Eva stepped into the room. “Miss Stanley, remember yourself.”
“Oh, pish.” Next she picked up Julia’s crystal perfume atomizer and gave the tasseled, velvet-covered ball a squeeze. A cloud of fragrance encompassed her neck.
“Miss Stanley, you quite shock me. That is Quelques Fleurs by Houbigant.”
“I know what it is. She’ll never miss that tiny bit. And she’ll never notice it on me, either. I usually smell like her perfume because I handle her clothes.” She pushed back the little chair and came to her feet. At the foot of the bed lay a pile of dresses. Miss Stanley scooped them up and bunched them into a ball she hugged against her, only to drop them on the floor in front of the armoire. One by one she bent to retrieve them and place them on hangers.
“Is that any way to treat your mistress’s fine things?”
Miss Stanley let out a huff. “Miss Huntford—may I call you Eva?” Eva flattened her lips in response, but that didn’t deter Miss Stanley. “Eva, Lady Julia couldn’t make up her mind what to wear down to dinner. As a result, I’m left to clean up after her. I’m doing the best I can. If I were you, I’d mind my own business, or you and I will not get on very well at all.”
Holding a hanger in one hand and one of Julia’s gowns in the other, Miss Stanley regarded Eva with no small amount of censure. Eva sensed an implied threat, and that didn’t sit well with her. Not well at all. Who was this woman? Surely not a run-of-the-mill lady’s maid.
CHAPTER 4
When Phoebe and Julia entered the drawing room, Regina excused herself from Olive Asquith and hurried over to them. “Julia, darling, won’t you play for us until dinner is ready?”
Julia scrunched up her nose and demurred. “I hardly think the occasion calls for music, Regina.”
“On the contrary. Music will soothe the family beasts. You don’t wish a repetition of this afternoon, do you?”
Phoebe shuddered at the thought. Julia asked in an undertone, but nonetheless bluntly, “Whatever induced you to let them stay? A sudden desire for sainthood?”
“Hardly, darling. It’s entirely due to Ralph that I didn’t toss them all out hours ago.” Her face softened as she mentioned Mr. Cameron, but her expression hardened again just as quickly. “Goodness knows they deserve a good tossing out, calling me a thief and a murderer.” She clasped Julia’s forearm and turned her toward the grand piano. “Please, do play something calm, and should tensions rise, play louder. Drown out any and all unpleasantness.”
Julia emitted a sigh and a laugh simultaneously. “Very well. A bit of Beethoven, perhaps.”
“Yes, yes, that’ll suit.” Regina gave her a nudge toward the instrument. Then to Phoebe she said, “Thank goodness you’re both here. I don’t think I could weather my family’s visit alone.”
“I do give you credit for your forbearance,” Phoebe said candidly, but on second thought, she wondered about the power of Mr. Cameron’s influence over each member of this family. They needed a skilled mediator, she supposed. His calm demeanor had shown him to be a man of even temper and cool diplomacy. But this temporary truce seemed . . . far too easy.
Did Mr. Cameron share the family’s views on how Cousin Basil met his death? Did he blame Regina, believe her somehow responsible?
Was Regina somehow responsible?
She followed her cousin to one of the graceful French settees. As they sat, she asked, “Did you know how ill your father had become in the end?”
Regina’s gaze flashed before lowering to her lap. “No, not really. Oh, we knew of Father’s heart condition, of course. His physician never let us forget it.” Did Phoebe hear resentment in those words? Regina looked up with a frown. “Why? Do you think I deliberately brought on his heart failure, as my family charges?”
“Of course I don’t,” Phoebe replied smoothly, if not with full certainty. “But if you knew about his health, others did as well. Do you think there could be any truth in the notion that disturbing news struck the final blow?”
Regina’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, I do see what you’re saying.” She paused while Julia began playing a sonata. “Anyone might have goaded him into a fit of agitation. For instance, Hastings . . .”
“I don’t mean to accuse anyone,” Phoebe said quickly. “If it happened, it might very well have been unintentional. And it could have been anyone from anywhere, with a telephone call, a letter, perhaps a telegram.”
“Again, in all likelihood, it had to do with Hastings. They were forever arguing, and Father was forever receiving unpaid bills in Hastings’s name, not to mention reports of my brother’s indiscretions.” Suddenly her expression cleared, and she turned to Phoebe. “But none of this is why I asked you here, you realize.”
“I know.” Irony tinged Phoebe’s soft laugh. “You wished help with decorating the house.”
Regina shook her head. “That’s why I asked Julia. But not you, Phoebe. We both know you’re hopeless when it comes to such matters. No, we’ll leave colors and fabrics to your sister.”
“Then why am I here? Other than that you were kind enough to invite me, of course.”
Regina uncharacteristically reached for her hand. “I have some new ideas I wish to share with you, cousin.”
“Oh?” Phoebe was intrigued. “Such as?”
“I won’t go into it in detail, not here, but suffice it to say that clearing away the old in favor of the new and modern doesn’t apply only to houses. It applies to life
. To ways of bettering our world, and word has it you’re interested in such things.”
“Well, yes, indeed I am. You know I’m involved in the running of the Haverleigh School for Young Ladies, and there’s the charitable organization I started for veterans residing in the area. I’m also pleased with the new voting rights for women—”
“Which don’t go far enough,” Regina said.
“No, I agree that they don’t. The laws should be the same for men and women.”
“Exactly. Too many of us are left disenfranchised. Until we’re thirty, we’ll have no say. I have only a year and a half to wait, but you—my goodness—it’ll be ages before you may cast your first vote. Parliament should represent all people, and not pick and choose as they continue to do.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Do you . . .” Phoebe hesitated. As a rule, politics was rarely discussed at home. Grams and Grampapa were staunch Conservatives and assumed the same of their grandchildren as a matter of course. Phoebe never dared confess her more liberal leanings in their hearing. She turned to Regina and lowered her voice. “Do you support the Labor Party, then?”
Regina’s gaze darted to where Miss Asquith stood talking to Mr. Cameron. Miss Asquith looked uncomfortable, Mr. Cameron his usual composed self. “That’s what I wish to share with you,” Regina murmured, “but not here, not just now. Perhaps later, after dinner. Or tomorrow, you and I might sneak off somewhere we’re not likely to be followed by the others. Along one of the woodland trails, perhaps.”
“I understand it’s somewhat frowned upon for people of our class to support liberal ideas. I never discuss such things with my grandparents.” Phoebe smiled. “But you’re almost beginning to scare me. What could be so secretive that we must sneak off?”
“Phoebe, I’m sure you’re aware times are changing. New ideas are making their way into our society . . .” Regina glanced up at the same time Phoebe heard footsteps. She, too, looked up to find Miss Asquith standing near their settee, glaring down at them. For half a moment Regina looked perplexed, only to sport a grin an instant later. She released Phoebe’s hand. “Olive, dearest, join us. We were speaking of hopping up to London one of these days soon.”
Olive primly sat at Regina’s other side, or rather perched, as if ready to spring up at any moment. “We only just came from London. Why would you wish to return so soon?”
And why lie about our conversation? Did Miss Asquith not share Regina’s political philosophies? Would she disapprove? Phoebe surveyed the young woman from her austere chignon to her plain white shirtwaist and pleated skirt. Why, Phoebe realized, not only did Miss Asquith not dress for dinner, she hadn’t changed at all since their shopping excursion to Bristol. She had merely removed the jacket of her suit. A plain gold chain peeked out from the cuff of one sleeve, Miss Asquith’s only adornment.
In her other hand Miss Asquith held a crystal tumbler, and as she raised it for a sip Phoebe realized with a bit of a shock that the glass contained whiskey. At first she thought surely not, but as Miss Asquith lowered the tumbler, Phoebe caught a sharp whiff that could not be anything else. How very odd. She herself drank wine, but only with dinner. She had once taken a sip of Grampapa’s whiskey and, coughing, vowed never to do so again.
“Well, well, don’t we make a domestic scene?”
Miss Asquith and Regina broke off from whatever they were saying, and Phoebe, startled from her musings, watched the rest of the Brockhurst family file into the drawing room. It was Hastings who had spoken. He sauntered in none too steadily, a tumbler similar to Miss Asquith’s clutched in his hand. Verna, his wife, quickly caught up with him and slipped her arm through his. She stood close to his side, yet that didn’t stop him from swaying.
Julia had stopped playing—when, Phoebe couldn’t say, but she sensed it had been before the family appeared, and before Hastings had made his sarcastic observation. He made another one presently.
“Aren’t we the picture of family harmony? Verna, dearest, wouldn’t you say we are the happiest of families?”
“Hastings, please stop it,” his wife whispered loud enough for all to hear. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Difficult?” Hastings drank from his glass, the crystal facets twinkling in the light of the chandeliers. “When am I ever?”
“Do sit down, and do be quiet.” His mother stepped around him, while at the same time pointing to an armchair. “Verna, sit him down.”
Regina released a long breath. “God help us.”
Miss Asquith’s lips were pinched. Mr. Cameron moved to the piano. “Do continue, Lady Julia. Your playing is very good. Quite good, in fact.”
“High praise,” Julia mumbled with a half smile as she tapped out the opening notes of another sonata.
* * *
“I cannot believe it. I tell you, I simply cannot believe it.” Myra Stanley had just finished speaking with Lady Julia through one of the speaking tubes that ran throughout the house. She and Eva were below stairs, having their supper in the servants’ hall. Myra plunked down into her chair at the table and glowered at her plate. “They’re staying tonight, all of them.”
Mrs. Dayton, the cook, and Margaret, her assistant, sat across from them. Mrs. Dayton snorted, a sound suspiciously akin to muffled laughter. Margaret, a spindling girl of seventeen, hid a smile behind her hand.
“What are you two tittering at?” Myra treated them to a defiant tilt of her head.
“We could have told you the whole lot would be staying on,” Mrs. Dayton replied, reaching for another slice of roasted pork.
“Psychic, are you? Oh, but that’s not the whole of it.” Myra plucked up her fork, then set it down again with a clank against her plate. “Eva, I’ll have you know that we—you and I—are now expected to wait on old Lady Mandeville and her daughter-in-law. They came without their maids. Without! Who on earth travels that way?”
Eva calmly sliced into a layered portion of potatoes and onions. “Your Welsh onion cake is delicious, Mrs. Dayton.”
“Thank you. I hope they like it upstairs. Queer thing. That Miss Olive is in charge of the menu, and she says I’m to serve plain, hearty food, above stairs and below.”
Eva nodded her appreciation, though she wondered how the Brockhursts, not to mention Lady Julia, would feel about that. Phoebe, of course, would take the menu in stride.
“Did you not hear what I said?” Myra tossed up her hands in a show of frustration.
“I certainly did.” Eva chewed, savoring the baked, buttery mixture of flavors. “Did Lady Julia say which of us is to attend which lady, or did she leave it up to us?”
“Is that all you have to say about the matter?”
Mrs. Dayton shot Myra a quizzical look from across the table. “What else is there to say? You’ve got your orders. Now eat up. You’ll need your energy.” She chuckled. Margaret lowered her face to hide a grin.
“Vile woman,” Myra said under her breath.
“Attending two women isn’t nearly so daunting as you might think,” Eva said brightly. She knew her optimism would irritate Myra. “Last spring I had six young ladies to care for.”
Myra paled. “Good grief, how did you survive it? You must have taken leave of your senses to ever agree to such a thing.”
“I did what was necessary at the time.” Eva didn’t add that the Renshaws had rewarded her handsomely afterward in the form of a bonus and time off to visit her parents. She would have attended those six young women either way, and she prided herself on the fine job she had made of it.
“Rather a chump, aren’t you?” Myra shook her head with impatience before turning to Mrs. Dayton. “What is your mistress thinking, turning this house into a lunatic asylum? Or is she thinking at all?”
“Myra,” Eva murmured in a cautioning tone. She cast a peek at Mrs. Dayton, then at Margaret. So far the girl had said little, even on uncontroversial matters. She did her job with efficiency and seemed skilled in the tasks Mrs. Dayton set her to. But quiet though she may be, s
he undoubtedly had her own opinions on the present conversation. Eva could see it in the tightening of her brow, the compression of her lips. Mrs. Dayton, too, was not impervious to Myra’s chattering. Her last question brought a ruddy sheen to the cook’s complexion, one that spoke of a simmering temper. Eva repeated, “Myra,” and was about to add a gentle chastisement when the woman interrupted.
“Do not Myra me. Miss Brockhurst must be mad to allow that family of hers to stay, after the fuss they made earlier. Oh, yes,” she snapped at Mrs. Dayton and Margaret, though neither had shown any particular inclination to speak up, “we heard it all. Putting away our mistress’s things upstairs we were, and their voices traveled through the open windows. Calling Miss Brockhurst a murderer. A thief. And then she allows them to stay?”
“It’s none of our affair, is it?” Her plate clean, Mrs. Dayton rose. With a stern expression she began collecting the dishes from the table. “Come, Margaret, let’s start on the pots and pans.”
Their hands full, the two marched off to the kitchen, leaving Myra and Eva alone. Eva suppressed a sigh. Myra hadn’t finished saying her piece, apparently. “They won’t leave, you know. That family will stay and sponge off Miss Brockhurst indefinitely, see if they don’t.”
“As Mrs. Dayton said, it’s none of our affair.”
“I’m only saying.”
“I suggest you don’t, if you value your position.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Is it a threat?”
“Only that Lady Julia won’t countenance such talk from her lady’s maid, and as for the countess—well, Lady Wroxly would send you packing at the first hint of insolence.” Eva pushed back her chair and stood, and leaned to retrieve her plate and utensils. Straightening, she said, “So which will it be? Do you want the new Lady Mandeville or the Dowager Lady Mandeville?”
“Bah. If you ask me, we should leave High Head Lodge, and soon.”
On that point, Eva couldn’t agree more.
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