* * *
In the drawing room following dinner, Phoebe kept close watch on Hastings. There being only the two men in the house, they had dispensed with remaining in the dining room for brandy and cigars, yet Hastings hadn’t initally come to the drawing room with everyone else. He had made a detour, to where Phoebe didn’t know. Now, as earlier, he wobbled a bit before settling heavily into an armchair, and his head lolled back and forth, side to side, as if he couldn’t keep from dozing. At the sound of his wife’s voice, his eyes popped open and he gazed about the room until he spotted her sitting at the card table shuffling a deck of cards.
“No one wants to play, Verna. Give it a rest,” he said to her. Except that he hadn’t spoken quite so clearly, but slurred each word into the next. Phoebe frowned, studying him. A detail in the dining room hadn’t escaped her notice. He had drunk no wine and barely touched his tumbler of whiskey. A sip now and again, nothing more, not even enough to lower the level of the spirits by any significant amount.
Mr. Cameron poured two snifters of brandy and set one on the small table beside Hastings’s chair.
“Here you are, Hastings. An after-dinner cordial,” Mr. Cameron said pleasantly.
Cousin Clarabelle, slowly making a circuit of the long room as people used to do in the old days, harrumphed. “I hardly think he needs more, Ralph.”
Hastings shrugged. Without a sideways glance, he reached out to drape his open hand around the cut crystal, but he didn’t raise the snifter to his lips.
Phoebe’s own gaze traced the front of Hastings’s suit coat. She searched for a telltale outline of a flask in his inner pocket. Had he been nipping on the sly? The garment lay flat, except where it bulged slightly around his hips to accommodate his slouching posture.
Verna continued shuffling cards. “Anyone for bridge? Mother Mandeville? Ralph? We’ll need a fourth. Julia, how about you?”
“Not me, thanks.” Julia sat alone at nearly the opposite end of the room, almost as if she wished to be as far away from Phoebe as possible. When Phoebe had patted the spot on the settee beside her, her sister patently ignored the gesture and kept walking. The old Julia might have behaved that way, no question. But since the spring . . . Phoebe wondered if perhaps something at dinner had upset her.
“Regina, then,” Verna suggested next, her voice as light as if the ugly scene this afternoon had never taken place. “Come play.”
Regina, however, had forgotten nothing. “You expect me to play bridge as if we’re all one happy family?”
Mr. Cameron quietly crossed the room to her. He moved like a cat sometimes, with hardly a sound, and so smooth one barely noticed him until he was there, at one’s shoulder. Regina winced as he touched her arm. “Regina, do come and play cards. It’s time to make peace.”
Phoebe braced for a sharp retort from her cousin, but none came. “I’ve already made as much peace as I’m able, Ralph. I’ve taken them in, haven’t I?” She turned her attention to the others. “One night, mind you, and then you must all return to London.”
Verna dropped the cards, scattering them over the felt surface of the table. Hastings laughed once, a grunt that abruptly broke off. Cousin Clarabelle stopped walking. Her hand rose to press her lips as she stared down at the Aubusson rug.
Regina regarded them all in turn. “What?”
“Nothing.” Verna began gathering up the cards.
Frowning, Regina appealed to Mr. Cameron. “What aren’t they telling me?”
Looking pained, he slipped a hand to the small of her back, bared daringly by the plunge of her dinner gown. “Come, let’s sit.” He drew her to the settee closest to the hearth and waited until she had settled. With the back of his fingers he traced a lock of her black hair, pinned back in a swoop from her brow. With the same hand, he grazed her chin in an intimate gesture that made Phoebe want to look away, yet ensnared her gaze at the same time. Gently he said, “They can’t go back to Mandeville House, Regina. They’ve let it.”
“Let it . . . to whom? And why?”
“To whom doesn’t matter. An American with lots of cash. The why is simple, so simple I doubt you truly need to ask. Without sufficient funds, they can no longer afford to keep the house themselves. They’ve nowhere to go, Regina. Nowhere but here.”
The other Brockhursts looked everywhere but at Regina and Mr. Cameron. Cousin Clarabelle turned her back to them. Hastings squirmed in his chair.
Regina’s mouth opened slowly, but no sound came out. Her frown deepened. “Then you’re saying . . .”
“Yes. At the moment, your family is wholly dependent on your generosity.” He spoke those last words softly, like a caress that filled Phoebe with a sense of observing something she oughtn’t. If she didn’t know better, if she hadn’t heard the conversation, she would have thought she was witnessing a seduction.
Mr. Cameron and Regina?
But in the next moment Regina sprang to her feet, whisking her hand out of his reach when he tried to grasp it. “You all need my generosity, yet you arrive here, at my home, flinging ridiculous accusations as if, as if . . .”
An uproar of blame and protestation broke out. Phoebe quickly heard enough—more than she wanted, for this latest skirmish promised to be nothing more than a rehashing of the preceding hours. She pointed her feet toward the hall with every intention of climbing the stairs to her room, but out of the corner of her eye she spied Julia, still sitting alone at the far end of the room. She changed direction.
“Are you quite certain you don’t wish to leave first thing in the morning?” she said as she reached her sister. She expected one of Julia’s typical shrugs and another avowal of enjoying herself too much to leave. She did not expect the abrasive glower her sister leveled on her.
“Go away, Phoebe.”
“What?” She hesitated, studying Julia’s face. Was there a grin hiding somewhere within those lines of disregard? Search as she might, Phoebe couldn’t find one. “Did I do something? Or say something?”
“Goodness, no.” Julia uncrossed her ankles and crossed them again, sitting primly with her back iron-bar straight. “You never do anything wrong, do you, Phoebe? You’re a saint in leather pumps.”
Even in her shock at her sister’s censure, from the corner of her eye she saw that Mr. Cameron had stood in an attempt to calm Regina, and now Cousin Clarabelle insinuated herself between them.
What was that about?
Refusing to be daunted, Phoebe sat beside Julia, who stiffened even more as she did. “What’s got into you all of a sudden?”
“It’s this house,” a third voice declared.
Startled, Phoebe looked up to discover that Olive Asquith had joined them. She dragged a chair closer to the settee. “This house is as oppressive as a tomb in its current state.”
“Oh, spare me any more talk about redecorating,” Julia scoffed. “I had enough of that topic this afternoon. And if you’re still determined to leave, Phoebe, I believe you should do so at the first opportunity.”
“Will you come with me, or are you still determined to stay?”
“I’ll stay. Or perhaps I’ll go up to London.” Anywhere not with you.
Phoebe winced. Those last words had slipped from Julia’s lips on a mere breath, less than a whisper. Or had they? Julia had turned her face away as well, and Phoebe couldn’t be sure if she had merely imagined what she heard. Why would Julia suddenly abhor her as if . . . as if last spring hadn’t happened?
If Miss Asquith noticed the rift between them, she pretended not to. She said to Phoebe, “Won’t you merely be going from one gloomy old house to another? Isn’t your Foxwood Hall just a larger version of this place? I’ll wager it hasn’t been done over . . . well, ever.” Her eyebrows surged. “I’ll wager a place that size could house several large families. Perhaps a dozen.”
Julia stared at her, obviously uncomprehending. Phoebe wasn’t sure she understood, either. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Only that such large houses
are no longer quite the thing, are they? Such a waste. It could be put to so much better use, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think.” Julia pushed to her feet and without another word strode away.
“I don’t suppose she does, much,” Miss Asquith mused as she watched Julia go. “Think, I mean.”
Phoebe bristled. “I beg your pardon. That is my sister you’re talking about.”
Miss Asquith shrugged in so cavalier a manner that, for a moment, she appeared more like Julia than she would have wished. “I’m sure your sister is quite talented in the way wealthy ladies usually are. But what about you, Phoebe? May I call you Phoebe?”
Phoebe might have mentioned that Miss Asquith had shown no inclination to be on familiar terms earlier that day, or that if she wished to be friends, she might refrain from insulting members of the Renshaw family. She might also leave off the condescending tone, for that was how Phoebe perceived that last question—as if Miss Asquith, or Olive, she supposed, doubted very much that Phoebe’s talents were any more impressive than those she assigned to other women of her class. She instinctively raised her chin. “My interests take me quite out of the drawing room, I assure you. I am interested in helping England’s heroes, the veterans of the Great War, as well as in seeing that every citizen of this country has access to an education.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Why do you sound as if you doubt my word?”
“I simply wonder how far you are willing to go, and how hard you are willing to work, for the sake of your convictions.”
“I am willing to work as hard as I must.”
Olive pursed her thin lips in a little smile. “Are you? Are you really? And what are you willing to give up to see your goals achieved?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“No, Phoebe. And that, you see, is precisely the problem with this country nowadays.” The young woman stood, her compressed little smile persisting as she gazed down at Phoebe with an imperious air. “My advice to you is to go home, where it is safe, before matters become too out of hand for you.”
“What are you going on about?”
Without answering, Olive turned on her heel and strode away. She left Phoebe with a sudden determination to remain at High Head Lodge and puzzle out what exactly was going on there. In fact, she very nearly forgot that only minutes ago, she had declared her intention of fleeing first thing in the morning.
CHAPTER 5
Phoebe’s eyes opened. Her dreams had been troubled ones, and now, waking in the bedroom assigned to her at High Head Lodge, she thought she understood why. Sounds penetrated her closed door, coming at her in the darkness—thumps, creaks, and voices. Muffled, and yet barbed with contention. Apparently, the walls in this house were far thinner than those at home.
She slid out of bed, finding her slippers and shoving her feet into them. Then she pressed her ear to the door. The sounds persisted. People were awake, and it seemed the day’s trials had not released their grip on this household.
Shrugging into her wrapper, she opened her door and peeked out. The corridor seemed deserted, but somewhere a door thudded closed. Who was up? Where had they been? The argumentative voices surged from behind one of the doors. She ventured over her threshold, treading lightly over the plush hall runner. She came to the suite shared by Hastings and Verna.
“Stand up to her, blast you.” Each word Verna spoke rang with disdain.
“How? She holds everything now, or nearly. What can I do?”
“Be a man. Not a weakling.”
“That’s unfair.” As before, Hastings spoke in a slurred voice. “I can do nothing to change Father’s will. You know that.”
Behind the paneled door, Verna sniggered. “A real man would find a way.”
“You never wanted me. Only the money.”
“Oh, do stop whining. I’m so tired of it. So unutterably weary.”
Phoebe’s stomach twisted. She regretted leaving her room, hearing these hurtful words. She couldn’t imagine her own parents speaking to each other like this. Mama and Papa had loved each other, hadn’t they? She had been so young when her mother died, her memories were vague—but no, surely they could not have despised each other or found fault in each other like Hastings and Verna. Papa had never looked at another woman again, and he spoke of Mama often to Phoebe and her siblings, taking special care to keep her memory alive. And then there were Grams and Grampapa. She had never heard either of them speak an unkind word, or raise a voice, or make accusations one to the other.
She had said it to Julia earlier: The Brockhursts were poison. Slowly poisoning one another, and yes, the people around them. If Regina needed her, wished to confide something in her, then she could come to Foxwood Hall, because with or without Julia, she intended going home tomorrow.
Before she could move another step, a soft click drifted along the corridor; then another came, softly, like a kiss. The sound drew her attention to an open door, that of the billiard room located near the first floor landing, just like the one at home. She heard a third light click, ivory against ivory as balls slowly collided. No voices came, no sound at all but that of the balls. Well, if someone wished to while away the night hours in such a way, it was no business of hers, though she couldn’t help wondering who it was. If she were to guess, she’d say Ralph Cameron. With his cool patience and smooth aplomb, he struck her as the type of man who played billiards.
Turning away from Hastings and Verna’s room, she started back to her own, when another of the doors opened, this one on the other side of the corridor. She instinctively went still, held her breath, and then pulled tighter against the shadows. Someone poked her head out of Regina’s room, but it wasn’t Regina. The figure was too small and slight, and as she tiptoed into the corridor, Phoebe recognized Olive. Her hair was down, falling as straight and sharp as rain down the middle of her back. She started to her own room, but then something stopped her. Had Phoebe made a noise? She didn’t think so, but Olive abruptly turned, craning her neck and peering into the darkness.
“Is—is someone there?”
Phoebe stepped away from the wall. “It’s only me. You startled me when you opened the door. I didn’t think anyone else was up.” That last was a lie, of course.
“Oh, I . . . Regina was having trouble sleeping. I went in to . . . to . . . read to her. We do that sometimes. Read—at night.”
“Is she all right? And you, Olive. You seem a bit upset.”
“I didn’t expect to meet anyone in the hall. You startled me. Anyway, Regina’s finally asleep.”
Phoebe expected Olive to question her as to what she was doing up, but the young woman only bade her a hasty good night and scurried off to her own room. In an instant she disappeared behind the closed door.
Phoebe hesitated. The argument between Hastings and Verna had quieted, though murmurs of unrest continued behind their door. She crossed the hall to Regina’s bedroom. Her hand descended on the knob, but she lingered, uncertain. Did she want to insinuate herself any further into this family’s strife? It would only make leaving tomorrow that much more difficult. What if Regina appealed to her to stay? How could she refuse, especially now, in the simmering unhappiness of this place? And anyway, Olive had said Regina was sleeping, and Phoebe didn’t wish to wake her.
She removed her hand from the cool knob and walked determinedly back to her room.
* * *
Eva set one of Lady Phoebe’s portmanteaus on the bed and flipped the latches open. Morning sunlight gilded the rug and parquet floor, while the soft summer breeze stirred the window curtains. She hummed a light tune as she went to the dresser and began taking Lady Phoebe’s things out of the drawers. “I can’t say I’m disappointed to be going home, my lady. There is something about this house . . .” She didn’t say more. It wasn’t her place to openly criticize, but there was little about High Head Lodge that met with her approval. “I do wonder how the elder Lady Mandeville will manage without anyon
e to help her dress and all, though.”
Lady Phoebe finished the last of her tea. She moved the tray table aside as she stood. “Miss Stanley will have to help Julia and both Lady Mandevilles, I suppose.”
“I’m sure you didn’t notice, but Myra Stanley was frightfully jumpy last night as she helped Lady Julia and the Dowager Lady Mandeville to bed. She especially didn’t seem to like crossing the hall from one bedroom to another.” Eva gently placed a stack of camisoles into the suitcase and smoothed her fingertips over the top one, a sheer cotton embellished with pale blue silk ribbon and eyelet lace. “She’s been acting so strangely since we arrived.”
“As a matter of fact, I did notice her darting across the corridor as if her heels were on fire.” Lady Phoebe went to the dressing table and began opening the drawers, gathering up the items within. She made neat little piles on the tabletop. “What do you suppose is the problem?”
“I’ve been puzzling over that very thing.” Eva laid several folded pairs of silk stockings beside the camisoles, then turned to face Lady Phoebe. “Yesterday, when we all left on the shopping trip, and Myra and Miss Brockhurst encountered each other for the first time, I could have sworn they knew each other.”
“Hmm. I suppose it’s possible.” Lady Phoebe shrugged in an unconcerned manner. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn Regina and Diana Manners were acquainted. It’s no secret that Regina tends to run in fast circles. But why would that make Miss Stanley uneasy?”
“Not just Miss Stanley, my lady.” Eva leaned around Lady Phoebe to pick up the hairbrush. She ran it through Lady Phoebe’s reddish-gold waves. “Miss Brockhurst seemed taken aback as well. As if she took no pleasure in finding Myra Stanley right here in her own home.”
Phoebe frowned at her image in the mirror. “Interesting. I wonder why . . .” She shook her head. “Well, never mind. It’s between Regina and Miss Stanley, and I suppose Julia, since Miss Stanley is her maid. If Miss Stanley wishes to leave, or if Regina wants her to go, either or both of them will have to take it up with Julia. My sister is determined to stay on. I, on the other hand, am telephoning home just as soon as I’m dressed.”
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