One look at my husband’s mother, and I doubted Eleanore Thistlewaite ever screamed, even in childbirth. Whatever happened, she would grit her teeth and bear it. As she was doing now. Tall and thin, she radiated the arrogance and displeasure of a queen betrayed by one of her closest advisers. Her gown was royal purple, with falls of black lace at her cuffs and in three rows above her hem. Yards and yards of it, in fact, for her skirts were so full I suspected she’d added an old-fashioned hoop beneath them all. Or were hoops coming back into fashion and I hadn’t noticed?
Rochefort managed the introductions gracefully enough, but Lady Eleanore Thistlewaite’s icy stare did not soften. “I understand your engagement is of long-standing?” she said.
There was no hope of matching her freezing demeanor—Mrs. E was the first person who had ever shown me open hostility, and I had no experience in sparring with females. I responded simply. “Yes, my lady.”
“You are not a suitable bride for a Stonegrave. We may thank the good Lord the marriage may yet be annulled.”
“The marriage will not be annulled,” Rochefort inserted with considerable force, though he managed to keep his roar to a level that would not penetrate the walls. “As I have told you, Mama, I have waited a very long time for this bride, and no one else will do.”
“Her father was in trade!”
“Her father was a gifted engineer, and she bids fair to follow in his shoes. She is mine, Mama, and there’s an end on it. Minta is my bride, and nothing you can do will change it.”
I should be gratified . . . I was gratified. If only I could believe Rochefort’s words were defense of me rather than defiance of his mother. Or his determination to make sure the wife cog fit in the right hole to complete his plans.
Lady Thistlewaite was not a woman who took no for an answer. Turning to her son, she declared in ringing tones, “You cannot possibly expect her to entertain the guests who arrive next week. It is out of the question!”
Deliberately misunderstanding his mother, Rochefort returned, “I can see Minta is feeling better today, and I am certain that by next week she will have no difficulty coping with additional guests. And now, Mama,” he added, taking his mother firmly by the arm, “I believe we promised to entertain your guests with a stroll through the gardens before tea.”
The moment the door shut, I fell back on my mound of pillows, my head once again threatening to dissolve into a whirlpool. Only this time it wasn’t my wound that precipitated the chaos. I could actually picture that woman wanting me dead. Perhaps the bullet outside the workshop . . . No, no, no. She would never risk her precious son’s life. And, besides, at the time Lady Thistlewaite hadn’t known about me.
Fantasy. A flight of pure fantasy, my common sense pronounced.
But if Rochefort hadn’t told his mama about me until today, perhaps someone else had. Someone who could have arranged for an assassin.
No. Once again, I struggled to recall the conversation I’d overheard between Rochefort and Angus Drummond. Yes, I was almost certain they’d assumed the bullet was intended for my husband.
But what if it wasn’t?
Nonsense, all nonsense. Ladies of noble birth did not resort to murder when their sons married women of whom they did not approve. Yet there was something more here, I was certain of it—something too nebulous to pin down. If Lady Thistlewaite were any kind of a true mother, she’d be glad to see her son married to a woman of similar interests. But instead . . .
As I examined her hostility, a strange thought took shape. Somehow her extreme anxiety seemed to be more connected to our next set of guests than to her son’s rejection of her candidate for wife. And why was my role as hostess considered “out of the question”?
Rochefort had much to answer for.
When Tillie brought in the tea tray, I eyed it with no little trepidation.
Tea, biscuits, and two rather nice macaroons, my common sense pointed out.
Could be your last meal, my inner voice asserted snidely. If Lady Thistlewaite consulted with Mrs. E . . .
Fine. I could eat or starve.
My common sense won. I had too many reasons to get back on my feet. But I took care with the first sip of tea, with each first bite of the sweets, searching for any flavor that did not seem normal.
Scardy cat! my inner voice mocked
Sensible! countered my common sense.
But over the next few days, in spite of Julian’s apologies for his mother and his assurances she would not repeat her verbal attack, I was not reassured. A darkening cloud seemed to hang over Stonegrave Abbey, ready to explode into stormy violence at any moment. Though I occasionally heard voices, for a full three days no one but Rochefort, the doctor, and Tillie entered my room.
The doctor was a sensible sort. Intelligent, brusque, and not given to gossip. And he was right, my eyes were nearly back to normal. And when he assured me Rochefort also would soon be fit as a fiddle, I believed him.
To my complete surprise, the vicar called every other day to inquire about our health. A rather nice gesture, I thought, as I suspected Julian, like my papa, tended to be rather careless about practicing his religion. Nonetheless, the vicar had married us on the same day we were shot, and I suppose it did him credit that he considered us part of his flock.
Of course, it was Rochefort, Lady Thistlewaite, Lady Wandsley and her daughter, Lady Phoebe, who spoke with the vicar, relaying his good wishes and prayers for our quick recovery through Tillie. However, on the fourth day after our marriage, Lady Thistlewaite herself appeared, bearing a copy of The Book of Common Prayer, which the vicar had been kind enough to leave for me.
My mother-in-law presented the gift, then stood stiff and silent, obviously struggling for words which refused to come. “It is clear,” she said at last, “that I am presented with a fait accompli.” She paused, drew a deep breath. Oddly, her thin shoulders heaved, as if shaking off a train of thought. “But I am not so unfeeling,” she continued, “that I am not aware my son is . . . pleased with his bride. I trust, therefore, we may go on peaceably. The next few weeks will be difficult enough without a war between us.”
The next few weeks . . . difficult?
“Of course,” I assured her. What else could I say? But, later, when I pelted Julian with questions, he side-stepped them with remarkable agility. Time enough when I was feeling better, he told me.
Ha! How could I feel better in the midst of intrigue and mysteries? But for now I had little choice.
On the sixth morning after my marriage, I sent for Mrs. E.
“Good morning, my lady.” Her curtsey was back to little more than a bend of her head.
“It is unfortunate that I have been confined to bed since the day of my marriage,” I said from my position in one of the upholstered chairs before the fireplace, the white embroidered dragons lending me courage. “And the arrival of Lady Thistlewaite has undoubtedly added to the confusion about who is mistress of Stonegrave Abbey. Therefore,” I continued before she could speak, “I wished to tell you that tomorrow I will expect the menus to be presented to me here in my bedchamber at ten o’clock. After that, God and the doctor willing, in the east morning room at the same hour. At which time we will also discuss the menus for the meals after our new guests arrive. Is that clear, Mrs. Biddle?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And Mrs. Biddle?” She straightened to stiffer attention, her black bombazine rustling against her petticoats. “Who is mistress of Stonegrave Abbey?”
“You are, my lady.” She didn’t so much as blink, though the hands tightly clasped in front of her could have been considered crossed fingers.
“Until tomorrow, Mrs. Biddle.” This time her knees actually bent when she curtsied.
And so I began my reign at Stonegrave Abbey. A trifle delayed, as was the reality of my marriage, but if I could manage Josiah Galsworthy, a workshop full of creative assistants, the many companies wishing to purchase Papa’s services, and the hard-headed, shrewd-eyed men
who owned those companies, I could run Stonegrave Abbey.
If someone didn’t kill me first.
Chapter 9
In some ways a week confined to my bedchamber turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Already exhausted by Papa’s long illness, I’d had to deal with the funeral, closing the house, finding places for the servants, and leaving the only home I had ever known. Only to be confronted by an array of fantastical machines, a hostile housekeeper, a surprise fiancé, a hasty marriage, and a bullet. To say that I needed time to adjust was putting it mildly.
But by week’s end I could feel the difference. I was settling in at Stonegrave Abbey, forming a truce with Mrs. E, even as the rhythm of the sounds in the corridor and outside my windows became routine. I experienced only the slightest qualm when Jacob scratched at the door, politely asking if Roberta might clean my room. Not that I didn’t watch my husband’s mechanical marvel every second. Perhaps I simply could not reconcile myself to an automaton that appeared to be unrelentingly male, yet was dressed in female clothing. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. E if a wig could be found in the attics.
And then there was Julian. He visited me twice a day, and I began to think we might be friends, for there was no doubt we had similar interests. We spoke of many things, from his art collection to our mutually unusual childhoods, our fascination with new means of transportation—most particularly our longing to fly. And, yes, we finally talked about the assassination attempt, which he attributed to a business rival. I could not quite bring myself to suggest the bullet was meant for me, as the only possible suspect would be a villain hired by his mother. Unless . . .
What would happen to Papa’s business if I died?
No one would benefit except Rochefort. In fact, if my Marriage Settlement was typical, everything my father left me now belonged to my husband, so Julian could derive no further benefit from my death.
Except a new wife. And I acquitted him of that. Love might not be involved, but I was the wife he wanted, of that I had no doubt. And, besides, no assassin would have been stupid enough to shoot his employer!
I gasped as Tillie tightened my corset. One week and I had grown too accustomed to doing without. “I wish to make a good impression on my guests,” I told her a trifle tartly, “not faint at their feet.”
“Yes, my lady,” she returned meekly, but I caught her not-quite-stifled giggle. I suppose the whole household was aware of the awkwardness of the situation with Lady Thistlewaite and her thwarted plans for her son.
I was soon garbed in my finest day gown for mourning—one not dyed but hastily fitted from the black gowns my dressmaker kept on hand for such occasions. Tillie carefully placed a black lace cap on my head, one large enough to cover the small bandaged patch above my right temple. I peered at myself in the mirror and curled my lip. “Some rouge, I think, Tillie.” When she was done, I took another look and sighed. I would have to be strong. My looks certainly weren’t going to endear me to my visitors. Ah well, perhaps I would garner their sympathy instead.
But of course when we met in the drawing room, the Earl and Countess of Wandsley were openly frosty, disinclined to offer so much as a jot of sympathy. And Lady Phoebe? Oh dear, the poor girl looked positively woebegone. Surely she could not be pining for my husband. He told me they had never met. But I had to admit Julian was rather striking. Perhaps now that she’d met him . . .
And Lady Thistlewaite? In spite of her offer of an olive branch, she could scarcely get the introductions past her clenched teeth. Lovely. I’d been informed our visitors had already seen the gardens and the art galleries, so what did we do now?
Rochefort jumped in and, silly me, I thought he was coming to my rescue. “Wandsley,” he said, “I believe you have not seen some of the machines in my workshop below stairs. Perhaps you would care to join me.” Both men practically ran from the room. Cowards!
In spite of the antiquity of his title, the Earl of Wandsley was one of the peerage’s less memorable earls, I decided as he fled hard on Rochefort’s heels. He was a thin man of medium height, with medium brown hair and a bland egg-shaped face. Though he wore a fashionable frock coat and cravat, he faded into insignificance beside his wife, who was built like a pouter pigeon, her bodice threatening to match the width of her expansive forest green silk skirt. Lady Phoebe Fortescue was another thing entirely. Her figure more closely resembled her father’s, giving her a coltish look, which someone—her mother?—had decided to disguise under far too many ruffles in a pale pink that did nothing for her complexion.
Even as I apologized for my failure as hostess over the past week, I wondered why these people were still here. Finding their quarry out of reach, why had they not packed up and gone home? Or did they still hope to triumph?
I repressed a shiver. “Please pardon my ignorance,” I said to Lady Wandsley, “but is your principal seat in Hertfordshire?”
“Oxfordshire,” she pronounced repressively. “Wandsley Hall has a remarkable prospect above the upper Thames.”
“How delightful,” I murmured, before turning to her daughter. “Lady Phoebe, have you made your come-out in London?”
“Two years ago. I did not take.”
“Phoebe!”
Ignoring her mother, she added, “I am bookish, you see. An advocate of women’s rights. Better care of orphans, homes for . . . ladies of the evening, where they can learn their letters—”
“That is enough!” Lady Wandsley roared in a rather good imitation of Rochefort at his worst.
Lady Phoebe shrugged. “So naturally Mama and Lady Thistlewaite thought I might do for Rochefort as he has no interest in the usual female graces.”
I was suddenly glad they had stayed. I was going to like Phoebe Fortescue.
“Tell me about the guests who are expected tomorrow,” I said, offering a change of subject to the two older ladies, who had flushed a fine shade of puce.
Puce drained to white. What had I said to precipitate such a violent reaction?
Lady Wandsley recovered first. “I–I am only slightly acquainted with Lady Carlyon,” she admitted. “The Marquess, of course, was influential in the late king’s government and in attempting to keep his spending from running riot. Unsuccessfully, I fear. When”—she cast a furtive glance at Lady Thistlewaite—“when the Duke of Wellington seized the government, the Carlyons left town and no one has seen them since.”
“I have known Lady Carlyon since we were girls,” my husband’s mother said, taking up the conversation with commendable smoothness, “though I, too, have not seen her for some time. I believe she and Carlyon have been immured in some obscure part of Scotland. I am delighted we have been able to coax them out.”
“I understand she brings something of an entourage with her?” My hint for information was all too obvious, frightfully bourgeois, but to my surprise, Lady Thistlewaite responded with more information than Rochefort had been willing to impart.
“The Marquess was once one of the most powerful peers in the realm. They have always traveled in state. And this time, I understand they will be accompanied by a connection of the family, a girl about your age. Her mother is foreign,” she added blandly, “long refusing to learn our language, and did not care to make the journey into the wilds of Hertfordshire.”
“One look at Lord Rochefort’s creations and they’ll likely turn tail and run,” Lady Phoebe declared with a certain satisfaction.
Roberta. Shades of screams in the night. I hid a grin behind my hand.
“And then there’s Drummond of course,” Lady Thistlewaite continued. “He came ahead to make sure all was in order. He is also part of the Carlyons’ entourage.”
Of course he was. As I should have surmised the moment I heard “Scotland.” Clearly, my head was not yet functioning as well as it should. “Mrs. Biddle tells me eight in all,” I said, “not counting Drummond. “Two suites for guests and six for the servants’ quarters—four female, two male.”
“That is correct,” Lady Thistle
waite pronounced. “The Carlyons always travel with their own footmen.”
The Abbey had so few footmen guests were forced to bring their own? Not likely, I thought, bristling a bit at the implied insult.
“Do we know the young lady, Mama?” Lady Phoebe asked.
“Miss Smythe has led a highly sheltered life,” Lady Wandsley returned. “She has not been presented to the ton.”
“What is her Christian name?”
So Phoebe knew as little as I.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” her mother responded, far more repressively than seemed warranted.
“I believe her mother calls her Drina,” Lady Thistlewaite offered.
“Drina,” Lady Phoebe scoffed. “What kind of name is that?”
“I have perhaps been too familiar in naming her thus,” Lady Thistlewaite responded. “The girl comes from an old and distinguished continental family and is undoubtedly more accustomed to formality than we. You will, of course, address her as ‘Miss Smythe.’”
Miss Smythe. The name itself raised questions.
Throw one more mystery into the pot.
Barely veiled hostilities continued at dinner, the first meal I had eaten downstairs since Mrs. H’s fine luncheon following the wedding. My place at table had, of course, been returned to the opposite end from Rochefort, and even though leaves had been removed, the distance between place settings precluded any general conversation. Rochefort carried on a desultory conversations with his mama on one side and Lady Wandsley on the other, while I attempted to encourage Lady Phoebe into further revelations. In vain. I suspected her sullen concentration on her dinner was due to a scolding from her mother. The earl, her father, was less difficult, perfectly happy to discourse on horses and hunting the entire length of the meal. A sparkling, witty dinner it was not.
Later, in the drawing room, Lady Phoebe played the pianoforte and sang, a determined and skillful presentation, if lacking in emotion. Lady Thistlewaite and Lady Wandsley proclaimed themselves suitably shocked when I freely admitted I had no musical skills and declined to perform. Fortunately, the gentlemen joined us at that awkward moment, and the ladies promptly drew Rochefort into a game of whist while the earl went out on the terrace to indulge in a cigar.
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