Eva couldn’t help herself. “I trust you enjoyed your shopping excursion into Cheltenham yesterday, my lady?” If her tone hinted at something other than an innocent shopping trip, Lady Julia should realize that if Eva noticed her inappropriate actions, others would as well.
“Yes, I did, thank you, Eva.” Julia’s gaze burned into her. “Now would you please inform me as to why our tranquil home is suddenly overflowing with teenaged girls? Was that Zara Worthington I saw leading the pack?”
“It was, my lady. She and two other girls from the school will be staying with us until their parents can make arrangements for them to return home.”
Julia leaned against the lintel and wrapped both arms around herself. “You can’t mean they’ve closed the school?”
“They have indeed, my lady.” She caught Lady Julia up on what the police had concluded thus far.
“Cyanide.” Lady Julia shook her blond head and hugged herself tighter as if warding off a chill. Then her nose wrinkled. “How long will they be here?”
“I really couldn’t say, my lady. Would you like me to ready you for the day?”
“I suppose you’ve been charged with looking after all of us?”
Eva inclined her head, not trusting herself to answer verbally lest she give the impression the arrangement was not to her liking.
Lady Julia smiled sympathetically. “Poor Eva. Well, I for one shall make myself as scarce as possible and not add to your burdens.”
“It’s no burden, my lady.” Eva certainly didn’t want Lady Julia engaging in any reckless behavior—like staying out most or all of the night—on her account. “I truly don’t mind. Besides, the girls seem very cooperative and willing to help each other with as many tasks as they can manage. Ladies Phoebe and Amelia even helped the others arrange their hair.”
“Even Zara?”
Eva couldn’t help laughing at her skeptical tone. “Lady Zara did require a bit more handiwork than the others.”
“Well, please help me arrange mine and then I’ll be happy to do for myself.”
“My lady, really, it’s my job, after all.”
Lady Julia had turned into the room, but now stopped and said over her shoulder, “Eva, how often am I this considerate?” Before Eva could venture an answer, she went on. “If I were you, I’d seize what is sure to prove an exceedingly rare opportunity.”
Not long after setting Lady Julia to rights, Eva received a summons to report to the Petite Salon, a lovely little parlor on the ground floor overlooking the corner gardens. She arrived to find Lady Amelia and their three guests seated around the table often used for informal meals in the absence of company. There were no place settings in front of the girls, however, but textbooks, pens, and paper. Lady Wroxly and Lady Phoebe occupied the camelback settee near the bay window, their heads bowed over the assignment instructions handed out to the students before they left Haverleigh. Lady Wroxly wore her habitual black silk, as she had since her son died in the war, her only concession to a later stage of mourning being that the fabric possessed a sheen rather than the dull crepe of full mourning.
“I should think we can handle this rather nicely, as long as we keep to a strict schedule,” the countess said in her precise diction. “French immediately after breakfast, followed by mathematics. I believe we shall amend the curriculum a bit to reflect the type of figuring required by a wife in the running of her household.”
Lady Phoebe stiffened. Her jaw pulsed, no doubt with words she struggled to hold back. Considering how Lady Phoebe approved of Miss Finch’s curriculum, she must burn to protest her grandmother’s interference.
“And then there is history,” Lady Wroxly continued. “After luncheon comes literature—I see their reading has already been assigned—and science.” Her head came up. “I believe your grandfather will be most happy to lead them in their science studies. Plants, butterflies, a bit of stargazing.” Lady Phoebe’s forehead wrinkled in obvious perplexity but she remained silent as her grandmother went on. “Perhaps he’d enjoy taking on the history lessons as well. Following tea, they may make use of the music room to practice their instruments and the library for quiet study. After dinner—”
A groan rose from the table. Her ladyship wasted no time in ferreting out its source. “Zara, are you suffering from indigestion?”
“No, Lady Wroxly.”
“Then perhaps you detect a flaw in the scheduling of your studies?”
The girl’s full lips turned down in a pout. “No, Lady Wroxly.”
“Good. Then let’s commence, shall we?” Her ladyship came to her feet, something she did without assistance and that brought her to the considerable height of nearly six feet. Lady Wroxly carried herself straight and tall, with nary a hunch as so many women of stature were wont to do. Her black skirts, floor length in the old style, swept the Aubusson rug as she came around the table. She picked up a cloth-bound volume and opened it to where a ribbon marked the place. “Now then, I shall oversee your French lesson, after which Eva and my granddaughter will take over with mathematics. Maintenant, ouvrez vos livres et commençons. Jeanne, veuillez lire et traduire le premier paragraphe de la page cinquante-sept?”
Eva joined Lady Phoebe on the settee. As the girls opened their French textbooks and Jane Timmons began reading, in a passable accent, the paragraph Lady Wroxly had indicated, an uncomfortable sensation came over Eva. She had once wished to be a teacher, true, but she had cut her studies short and felt no more qualified to lead a lesson than the girls themselves. Why, Zara Worthington and Jane Timmons had each completed more schooling than Eva, who never made it past the lower sixth form.
Would the girls perceive her deficiencies and refuse to take her seriously? At present they were paying close attention to the countess. Even Zara Worthington seemed intent on making a good impression. But of course, her parents would be well acquainted with Lady Wroxly, and Zara could never hope to misbehave for her ladyship and get away with it.
Amelia said Zara excelled academically, but no one could discover how she did it since they never saw her studying. Perhaps that mystery would be revealed in the next several days, or however long this situation lasted.
After correcting Jane’s syntax one or twice, Lady Wroxly said, “Lilyanne, veuillez prendre plus de Jeanne?”
It was Lilyanne’s turn to read and translate. A wave of crimson swept from her neck to her hairline, clashing garishly with her cinnamon-colored spirals only partially tamed by pins and hair combs. Beside her, Zara lowered her face over her book and snorted—not loud, but loud enough to be heard by all. Lilyanne’s complexion turned brighter still and beads of perspiration dotted her brow.
Lady Wroxly snapped her own book closed. “Zara, nous n’avons pas tolérer l’impolitesse en cette maison.”
Eva had learned enough French to translate: We do not tolerate rudeness in this house.
Zara flinched upright, the bloom in her own cheeks deepening. She raised dark eyebrows in a show of innocence. “Yes, Lady Wroxly. Forgive me.”
“En français,” the countess sternly insisted.
“Oui, Madame. Pardonne-moi.”
With a lift of her eyebrow, her ladyship turned back to Lilyanne, whose fiery discomfiture showed no sign of relenting. “Procéder.”
Displaying none of Jane’s confidence, Lilyanne began a faltering recitation, stumbling every few words. Her poor performance brought a decided pinch to Lady Wroxly’s lips, but the woman rose to the occasion by not allowing her patience to fail her. Instead, she quietly hinted at the pronunciations each time they eluded poor Lilyanne’s tongue.
Eva’s palms became moist on the girl’s behalf, and on her own behalf as well, for once again she considered her inadequacies as a teacher and wondered how on earth she would pretend she had anything significant to convey to these girls. A whisper broke into her insecurities.
“Is something wrong? You’re not feeling ill, are you?”
Eva merely shook her head, but Lady Phoebe r
esponded with clear disbelief in the tilt of her chin.
“I don’t believe I’m up to this, my lady,” Eva confessed in a whisper.
“Nonsense. Besides, you’re mostly here for moral support for me. You’ll help me keep them in line,” Phoebe said with a quiet chuckle. “And we are taking their mathematics lesson beyond household concerns, providing I can persuade Grams to amuse herself elsewhere.”
A throat-clearing interrupted their murmurs, and Eva glanced up to discover Lady Wroxly raining disapproval down on them both. Lady Phoebe leaned away and Eva folded her hands in her lap and cast her gaze contritely on the floor. Goodness, when the countess looked at her like that, she might as well still be a schoolgirl herself. She listened attentively until it was time to begin the math lesson.
* * *
“I think that went splendidly,” Phoebe declared nearly an hour later as she and Eva crossed the Great Hall together. Minutes ago, Grampapa relieved them of their schoolroom duties by enthusiastically stepping in with a rousing lesson on the Restoration. He even came equipped with books from Foxwood’s library, several maps, and a letter written by Edward Hyde, first Earl of Clarendon, who was instrumental in restoring the monarchy.
“It went much better than I’d feared,” Eva conceded.
“I don’t know what you were worried about. They’re teenaged girls. We have nothing to prove to them, other than they must do as we say.” Phoebe smiled at the thought of Zara Worthington’s failed attempt to explain the difference between algebraic expressions and transcendental numbers. “Did you notice how Zara struggled?”
“I did, my lady. It’s puzzling, given her academic merits at school.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Perhaps the distress of Miss Finch’s death and the upheaval of leaving school has had its effects on her.”
“Perhaps.” Yet Phoebe’s curiosity over the discrepancy in Zara’s performance persisted. Though decidedly none of her business, she felt the urge to do a little poking about in school records. “You know, Eva, there could be something significant about Zara’s good marks.”
Eva came to a halt, her expression shrewd. “Do you mean her marks might be fabricated?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? Especially considering who her parents are. The Earl and Countess of Benton are among the school’s most generous benefactors. In fact, such has been the case for several generations now.”
Through the dining room doorway, footmen Vernon and Douglas could be seen setting up for luncheon. Phoebe drew Eva aside, out of their view. “Do you suppose Miss Finch had been inflating Zara’s marks to keep her parents happy?”
Eva compressed her lips and darted a glance at the dining room. She leaned closer to Phoebe. “I’ve another theory, my lady. Have you noticed Miss Sedgewick’s clothing? I would swear she wore a Poiret the other day at the luncheon, and if her perfume isn’t the same Brise de Violettes you received for your last birthday, I’m not worth my weight in old pewter as a lady’s maid.”
Phoebe considered. She had noticed Miss Sedgewick’s costly fashions, and thought perhaps they had come to her secondhand from a relative, or that her father’s heir treated her generously when it came to her wardrobe. But . . . “Do you think Miss Sedgewick has been adjusting Zara’s marks, and Miss Finch found out and . . .”
“I’m only making observations, my lady.” Eva drew a breath and let it out slowly. “But I might not be the most objective person to make such judgments. To be honest, I don’t like the woman. And she does not care for me.”
“As long as we’re being honest, I don’t particularly care for her either. But you can be certain I intend to get to the bottom of Zara’s academic performance. By the end of the day we should have an even better idea of where she excels and where she shows deficiencies. She did do well in French, but my guess is she has spent a lot of time in France with her parents. Oh, and now that I think about it, I believe she had a French governess. Amelia might know. I’ll ask her at the first opportunity.”
“Whether Miss Sedgewick has been changing Zara’s marks or not, I am convinced she has coveted the headmistress’s position for some time, my lady.”
“Yes, but is either a motive for murder?”
With that thought, Phoebe freed Eva to attend to her chores belowstairs. She hated to admit it but Julia had been right when she accused Phoebe of monopolizing most of Eva’s time. That wasn’t fair to her sisters, nor to Eva herself. There were shoes to clean, jewelry to polish, and clothing to press, not to mention the minor alterations Eva often made to their garments. Thank goodness more staff had been hired in the months since the war ended, so that Eva no longer needed to help out with other tasks belowstairs.
There were still nowhere near as many servants on the estate as before the war, but even Grams and Grampapa conceded that the world had changed dramatically. House parties were smaller, meals rather less elaborate, and the old dictates about which rooms may be used at particular times of the day had been relaxed considerably. Before, the Petite Salon would never have been used for dinner nor the library for coffee afterward, and rarely had the same room been used for more than one purpose throughout the day. Yet, they still dressed for dinner. Grams insisted, for it was what “civilized people do.” And poor Eva now had twice as many ladies to see to each morning and evening.
Grams in her wisdom had assigned their visitors bedrooms in the family wing, rather than the guest wing on the other side of the gallery. That was why, hours later, a chorus of voices floated up and down the corridor outside Phoebe’s room, accompanied now and again by the tramping of footsteps that made her wonder if young ladies or a battalion of foot soldiers had accompanied her home from Haverleigh. Meanwhile, her fears for Eva—and Eva’s sanity—appeared to be coming true as that stalwart soul hurried back and forth between rooms.
Phoebe was just sliding a final pin to the simple bun she had fashioned herself when a shout and a cry sent her leaping up from her dressing table. Holding her evening dress so the hem wouldn’t catch beneath her heel, she followed the sounds of acrimony into the room that had once been her parents’. Jane Timmons and Lilyanne Mucklow were sharing this room, and Phoebe was surprised upon entering to find Zara Worthington standing at one end of a fringed, velvet shawl while at the other stood Lilyanne. The garment was stretched out between them as each gripped a corner and tugged. Lilyanne’s face flamed. Zara’s bright blue eyes all but fired bullets at the other girl.
Off to one side, a much calmer Jane said, “You’ll tear it in half, and then neither of you will have it.”
“It’s mine,” Zara snapped. “Mother brought it home from her last trip to Venice. This little sneak stole it from my room.”
“It is not yours.” Lilyanne’s voice was choked with sobs, and a tear rolled down the girl’s ruddy cheek.
Phoebe grasped the shawl halfway between the two girls. “Both of you let go at once. You’re acting like children, and if my grandmother should hear you, she’ll—” Phoebe broke off, but she needed no further persuasion than mention of Grams. Both girls released their corner and the shawl drooped on either side of Phoebe’s half-closed fist. “There now. What is this all about?”
“She stole it.”
“It’s mine.”
The two girls spoke at once, so that Phoebe shook her head and raised both hands to her ears. “It will soon be my shawl if you cannot explain in a civilized manner.” She chuckled inwardly. When had she started to sound so like a teacher? This morning’s lesson had left its mark upon her as much as on the girls.
Perhaps more so. Right now they certainly weren’t acting like educated young women.
“Lilyanne,” she said, “tell me your version of what happened.”
The girl’s freckled arm came up, an accusing finger pointing at Zara. “She came barging in here and pulled my shawl right off my shoulders.”
“That’s because it’s mine!”
Amelia came into the room with Eva close behin
d her, both looking bemused. Amelia’s hair was half up and half trailing over one shoulder, waiting to be pinned in place. “What’s going on in here?”
Without answering her, Phoebe held up the shawl and appealed to Eva. “Do you remember unpacking just such a shawl for Lady Zara?”
“Why, yes, I do, my lady.”
“Would you please go and get it?”
Eva left and returned several moments later with a nearly identical garment draped across her forearms. “Is this it?”
They beheld a velvet shawl in tones of russet, deep blue, and subdued gold, in many respects quite similar to Lilyanne’s. On closer inspection, however, Zara’s bore a leaf pattern, while Lilyanne’s sported florals.
“Zara? Is that one yours?”
The girl’s pout emphasized the slope of a decidedly weak chin. “I suppose it is.”
“Then don’t you owe Lilyanne an apology?”
Zara’s lips flattened. “I’m sorry. It was an easy mistake, given how similar yours is to mine.” She ended with a barely audible humph, as if the similarities were somehow Lilyanne’s fault.
“Hardly what I would call a gracious apology, but thank you, Zara.” Phoebe handed the shawl she held to its proper owner. “Are you all right, dear?”
Looking at the floor, Lilyanne nodded.
“Then I propose we all finish readying ourselves for dinner.” Phoebe went to her sister and affectionately tugged at the loose section of hair. “We can’t have you showing up in the dining room half undone, now can we?”
Some twenty minutes later, Phoebe pulled up the rear as she herded the girls along the corridor. Julia, looking lovely as usual in a dress of black lace draped over green silk, fell into step beside her.
“High time you ventured out of your room,” Phoebe teased. “You missed all the fun.”
“A calculated move on my part. I heard quite enough through my door, thank you.”
“That may be, but I should think you might take a turn entertaining our guests after dinner and before bedtime. Eva and I, as well as Grams and Grampapa, have had more than enough of them for one day.”
A Pinch of Poison Page 10