Phoebe instinctively reached up to hold her hat as the Runabout hit a bump. “What did you discover? I was under the impression she served valiantly all through the war. Her parents said she was stationed right behind the front and often went to collect the fallen soldiers in the ambulances.”
“She did. And her nursing skills proved exemplary. She helped save many a life.”
“Then what was the problem?”
“Can you bear a chilling story?”
“Owen, please tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Very well. Last autumn, right before the war ended, it seems a soldier was admitted to Nurse Delacy’s triage station. Severe burns, and both legs gone. He should have died, and probably would have, but he didn’t—not of his injuries.”
“I don’t understand.”
His face grim, Owen stared out the windscreen. “Reports are that he begged for death, the pain was so great.” He stopped again and darted a glance at Phoebe. She nodded and beckoned for him to continue. “Olivia Delacy was the nurse supervising the night shift. In the morning, the soldier was dead.”
“That’s hardly condemning.”
“As I said, his injuries weren’t what killed him. The doctor determined he died of asphyxiation. As if someone held a pillow over his face until he expired.”
“Oh, dear lord.”
“No charges were made, but Nurse Delacy was immediately sent home.”
Feeling vaguely queasy, Phoebe hugged her middle with her left forearm and pressed her right hand to her lips. “She killed him to end his misery.”
“There is no conclusive evidence she did, but it’s possible.”
“Highly possible, I’d say, or why was she abruptly sent home? She must have snapped.”
Owen only inclined his head and focused on the road.
“And if indeed she snapped once and killed that soldier, how do we know she hasn’t snapped again since? Or won’t snap tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid we don’t.”
“Then . . . do you think she could be responsible for Miss Finch?” In Phoebe’s mind, it was a rhetorical question. She had already added Olivia Delacy’s name to her list of suspects.
“There is one glaring difference that speaks in her favor,” said Owen. “The soldier was a broken man who would never be whole again. Miss Finch, on the other hand, was a healthy woman in her prime, no?”
“I suppose one might say that. She certainly had many years of her career left ahead of her.”
“Then what reason might the nurse have had to do the woman in?”
A possibility sprang to Phoebe’s mind. “Perhaps Miss Finch discovered what Nurse Delacy did—or might have done—in France and as a precaution planned to sack her.”
The discussion ended when they reached Farmingworth. They found St. James Catholic Church and spoke to the monsignor. An elderly man, he remembered nothing about a boy named Elliot Ivers, nor anyone with Elliot’s condition. They returned to the road and continued on toward Chadham—the village to which Elliot had given that minute reaction, and the place Phoebe considered their true destination.
They crested a hill, then started down a steep slope ending in a narrow curve walled on both sides by hedgerows. Owen pressed the accelerator. Of their own accord Phoebe’s feet jammed against the floorboards and her hands braced against the dash.
The Runabout immediately slowed and Owen glanced over at her. “Why didn’t you ask me to slow down?”
“Oh, I . . .” She scrunched her features. “I don’t know, really.”
He laughed. “I thought you might enjoy the feel of flying.”
“This motorcar certainly seems like it might take flight at any moment. It’s just that I’ve never ridden in anything so fleet. It does take getting used to.”
“Think you could?”
She regarded the dash and the gear stick. “This vehicle looks to predate the war. You’ve owned it a rather long time, no?”
“I have.”
“Then you must be fairly proficient at driving it.”
“Passing fair.”
She relaxed back against the seat and tugged her hat lower on her brow. “Have at it, then.”
He gunned the engine, but not, she noticed, until they had rounded the next bend and an open stretch of road presented itself before them.
The wind tugged at her hair and slapped at her cheek. Her heart raced along with the vehicle. “I’ve been curious about something and have wished to ask.” She raised her voice to be heard. “I hope you won’t think me impertinent.”
“Ask away.”
She studied him a moment. Though his disclosure about Olivia Delacy never strayed far from her thoughts, her curiosity about Owen Seabright—about the kind of man he was—could not be stifled.
He was so very different from most other men she knew, so very . . . what was the word? Unaffected. Not that he didn’t wear his confidence like an expertly tailored suit. But of all the young men she had ever met, he alone seemed to derive his sense of self from his accomplishments—his mills, his service in the war—rather than his family’s pedigree. How had he escaped the usual trappings of privilege? She made up her mind to ask her question. “When your brother died, why did you not take on his title as your father’s heir? You don’t even seem entirely comfortable with people addressing you as Lord Owen.”
He had been the Honorable Mr. Seabright, until last spring when his brother, Edgar, died along with so many others during the influenza epidemic.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m not.”
His terse reply sent regret sweeping through her. She should not have brought it up, should not have ruined their lovely morning drive. “Never mind. You do think me impertinent.”
He shook his head. “I don’t. It’s just a difficult subject to talk about. I had been perfectly happy as Father’s younger son. I had my own plans and my own means of achieving them. And in so doing, I learned the fewer boundaries between myself and those who work for me, the better. Titles are just more walls between people.”
“But as their employer, you are above them.”
“True. But I refuse to turn a blind eye to conditions in my mills, or demand more than my workers are capable of giving. I’ve learned that mutual respect makes for smoother operations and superior goods.”
“And you think a title interferes with that.”
“I know it does. A title makes others afraid to approach a man. I want my workers to be able to converse with my foremen, and my foremen to converse with me. That’s the only way to run a business, Phoebe. The only way to keep one’s finger on all aspects of one’s industry.”
“How bourgeois,” she teased.
He laughed again. “Indeed. Such notions are hardly in keeping with fusty old titles.”
They drove on through farmland and small villages, stopping sometimes for sheep or cows crossing the road. While they talked of other things, she couldn’t help wondering, in a corner of her mind, what would happen when Owen finally inherited his father’s estate with all of its honors. Would he walk away from it—let the title revert back to the crown? Such a notion shocked her . . . and at the same time thrilled her with its newness, its daring. A man who wasn’t afraid to rely on his wits and abilities only. She smiled, though she wondered if she would have the courage to do the same. Poor Grams would be appalled.
They passed a clay-lined dew pond surrounded by a small herd of black Dexter cows enjoying a midmorning drink. Beyond the fields rolling away to the east, a spire poked up from the tops of some trees. Phoebe pointed out her window. “There, that must be St. James of Chadham, among those beech trees.”
They proceeded to a fork and a signpost that pointed the way. What had appeared close from the main road turned out to be much farther along the twisting lane. They passed a handful of cottages set well back from the road. Farm plots stretched out behind them, bordered by tapering, dry-stone walling. Each modest homestead appeared in need of new shingles or thatch,
and cried out for fresh paint on doors and shutters.
Chadham proper, bordered by hills on one side and a rushing stream on the other, boasted a few shops situated around a shady square. There were a few people about, all of whom turned a curious eye to the intruding vehicle and the two strangers who occupied it. Owen parked the Runabout in front of the rectory, which couldn’t be larger than a couple of rooms, perhaps three.
The man who answered Phoebe’s knock stooped to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. He had kindly gray eyes, though slightly sunken, as if he’d been ill or hadn’t been sleeping well. Phoebe guessed his age to be fifty or thereabouts. His thin lips pulled back in a smile. “Yes? May I help you?”
“Excuse me, sir, but are you the rector of St. James?”
“Yes, I am Pastor Davis.”
“My name is Phoebe Renshaw and this is Major Owen Seabright,” she said, deciding his former rank, rather than his title, might inspire a bit of trust. “We’d like to inquire about someone who might have been a member of your congregation a while back.”
“When would this have been?”
She traded a quick glance with Owen. “We don’t know, exactly. This individual is rather in a bit of trouble, you see, and we’re attempting to find out more about him. Specifically, whether he has any family.”
The man opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Please, do come in.”
He bade them make themselves at home in his tiny parlor. Threadbare patches in the furniture attested to the room’s contents having seen the better part of the last century as well as the present one, and Pastor Davis seemed relieved when they turned down his offer of refreshments.
“His name is Elliot Ivers,” Phoebe said after describing the handyman, “and he is presently sitting in jail in Little Barlow accused of attacking another man. The victim is also a vicar—perhaps you know him. The Reverend Ward Amstead?”
The minister shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure. But this Elliot, er . . .”
“Ivers,” Phoebe clarified.
“Yes. You say he indicated he might be from Chadham, but he didn’t actually tell you as much?”
“That’s correct, sir. You see, Elliot doesn’t speak much. He’s rather simple. Oh, not his abilities—he is quite a skilled workman and follows directions just as well as you please. He’s employed by the Haverleigh School for Young Ladies.”
“If he works for this school, as you say, doesn’t someone there know his history?”
“I thought news travels fast these days,” Owen said. “But obviously you’ve not heard. There was an untimely death in Little Barlow several days ago. The individual who hired Elliot, and who might have known more about him, is deceased.”
“Good heavens. Are you supposing this Elliot—”
“No,” Phoebe said quickly. “Not at all, sir. The matters aren’t related.” She glanced at Owen again. “At least we don’t think they are.”
The pastor patted his knees and blew out a breath. “Well, I’m afraid I cannot help you. I’ve never heard of Elliot Ivers, and don’t know of anyone fitting his description. Of course, I’ve only been here three years now. We Methodist ministers move about every few years.”
“Could you perhaps take a peek in the church records?” Phoebe asked. “It’s terribly important.”
“That would take time. But I will do. Mowbury lies not far from here, and I sometimes ride there on my bicycle. Have you a telephone at your disposal?” Phoebe eagerly nodded. “Leave me the exchange and number. If I find anything in our records, I’ll ride in and telephone you from the post office there. Will that suit?”
“Yes, very nicely, sir, thank you.” Phoebe rose, signaling the two men to do the same. Pastor Davis saw them out.
* * *
Eva and her charges arrived back at Foxwood Hall late in the afternoon. The girls had shown an eagerness to see all that Bath provided of interest, from the old assembly rooms to the Roman baths and everything in between. Even Lady Zara joined in the spirit of the day, assigning herself the task of tour guide to show off her familiarity with the city. Lady Julia, meanwhile, slipped away more than once—into a shop here, a bakery there—promising to meet them at their next destination but more often than not arriving as Eva and the girls were leaving.
At least she hadn’t lost sight of any of the girls. Jane Timmons’s early morning jaunt had put Eva on her guard. She made certain there were never more than a handful of paces between her and each of the girls.
She was bone tired as she dragged herself up the back staircase to the bedrooms to collect shoes that must be cleaned and polished and overcoats that needed brushing before she retired later that night. Immediately after depositing the outerwear in the valet service room, she must come back up and ready everyone for dinner. She hoped there were no guests this evening requiring her to shower extra attention on Lady Julia.
With several coats draped over her arms and a basket full of shoes, she knocked at Lady Zara’s door last. No answer came. Odd. The girl hadn’t been in any of the others’ rooms. She knocked again. Nothing.
Setting down her basket, she quietly opened the door. “Lady Zara, are you here?”
The room lay in shadow. None of the lamps had been switched on. A tremulous breath fluttered in the far corner. As Eva’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, a figure—hunched, her knees drawn up—took shape in a chair.
Yet another crisis? There seemed to be no shortage among these girls. They’d had such a lovely day, too, or so Eva had thought. She hadn’t heard a single unkind word from anyone—not even Zara, though neither had she gone out of her way to be particularly friendly to Jane or Lilyanne.
“Lady Zara?” Eva closed the door behind her and set down her burden of coats and shoes. She crossed to Lady Zara and crouched before her. “My lady? What’s wrong?”
Lady Zara didn’t look up, but seemed to shrink farther into the chair. A sheet of paper drooped from her fingers. A letter? The girls had probably checked the post upon their return.
Eva tried again. “Not bad news from home, I hope?”
A sob slipped from Lady Zara’s lips. And then another, and finally a torrent that broke like a summer storm. The paper drifted to the floor at Eva’s feet.
“My poor dear girl. Is someone at home ill?” This could well be what had kept the Earl and Countess of Benton from returning to England to collect their daughter.
Her face in her knees, Lady Zara choked out, “Worse than that.”
Eva’s heart twisted. Someone close to Lady Zara must have died. A grandparent? Parent? She reached up and stroked a spiraling lock of chestnut hair that had fallen loose. “I’m so very sorry, my lady. This is something I understand. Lady Amelia will understand, too—”
The girl’s head snapped up. “You mustn’t tell Amelia anything.”
“But why ever not? You needn’t suffer alone when—”
“No! It’s too humiliating. You must swear silence.” Her voice fierce, Zara raked the curls back from her swollen, tearstained face. “Swear it, Miss Huntford.”
“I don’t understand. This is nothing to be ashamed of.” She attempted to touch the girl’s shoulder, but Lady Zara flinched out of reach.
“Discovering yourself on the brink of destitution is nothing to be ashamed of?”
A moment stretched as Eva tried to understand. She glanced down at the letter, lying faceup on the floor, but it was too dark to read. She could make out only the coat of arms embossed in red foil at the top of the page, and a curling, swooping signature at the bottom. “Destitution? You mean no one has died?”
“Died? No, but I wish I would.” The last word dissolved into a wailing lament.
“My lady, you mustn’t say such things. Surely this is only a temporary setback for your family.” Was it? Eva had no idea but she had snatched at the first words that entered her mind.
“It isn’t temporary, you dullard. The houses will be sold, and all our lovely things. The mone
y is gone to income and death taxes and bad investments and . . . and I shall have to leave school and there will be no dowry and no coming out and no husband for me, ever! How I hate Papa for doing this to me!”
At a loss, Eva sat back on her heels. In truth, that last outburst had dampened her sympathies a smidgeon, especially when Lady Zara’s parents probably had more resources at their disposal than they let on. Perhaps they would not be able to continue in the extravagant style to which they had become accustomed, but neither would they be walking a path to the workhouse. The state of being poor had an entirely different meaning for those of the upper classes, and it involved few of the harsh realities of true poverty.
At a knock at the door, Lady Zara fell silent and her eyes became gleaming circles in the dimness. “Who is that? Send them away.”
At a second knock, Eva rose and went to open the door.
Lady Amelia stood outside, with Jane and Lilyanne behind her. “We thought we heard someone yelling. Is Zara all right?”
“She’s fine, my lady,” Eva said.
Lady Amelia craned her neck to see around Eva. “Why is the room dark? Zara, what’s wrong?”
“Go away!”
The three girls conferred by trading silent looks, and reached a unanimous decision. “Excuse us, Eva.” Eva had no choice but to step aside as Amelia led the other two into the room and switched on a lamp.
“We’re not going away, Zara. If something is wrong, we wish to help.”
Lady Zara sprang up from the chair and threw herself facedown on the bed. “You don’t understand,” she sobbed.
“You’re quite right, we don’t.” Jane strode to the side of the bed. “How about for once you don’t push the rest of us away and instead try trusting us? It might result in you having three new friends. Perhaps,” she added in the merest of whispers.
“Why are you doing this?” Lady Zara sobbed into the pillows. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
“Because it would be horrid of us to simply walk out and ignore you,” Amelia explained gently. She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned to stroke Lady Zara’s back.
Slowly, Lady Zara rolled over and pushed upright. More hair had fallen loose—great, heavy, twining locks. She draped it back off her shoulders and away from her face. She searched the room until her gaze lighted on Lilyanne. She pointed at her. “You’ll certainly have a good laugh once you hear.”
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