“We’re sorry to interrupt your gardening,” Phoebe said. “Didn’t your sexton tell you I telephoned?”
“Did you telephone?” He shook excess dirt from his fingers. “I don’t know why Alfred insists on answering the telephone. He’s terribly hard of hearing. I’m sure he had no idea what you said.”
“Oh, dear.”
Beside her, Owen laughed. “He wouldn’t make much of a secretary, then.”
“No, indeed,” the vicar agreed. “What did he tell you, my lady?”
Chagrined, she replied, “He said, ‘Mr. Amstead is at home today and would be pleased to meet with you at your convenience.’ ”
The vicar gave a whoop. “That does sound like Alfred. It’s what he says whenever he answers the telephone, unless he knows I plan to be away from home. But come. I’ll wash up and we’ll have some tea.”
Before they could take many steps, a man appeared outside the garden wall. He removed a rather beaten-up, wide-brimmed hat to reveal a head of flaxen hair and a smooth, youthful face. “I’ll be off now, Mr. Amstead,” he called. Holding his hat against his chest with both hands, he offered a quick, deferential bob in Phoebe’s general direction.
The vicar waved. “Yes, fine, Harry. See you Sunday.” He turned with a smile to Phoebe and Owen. “My deacon. A timid young man. I find it hard to imagine him leading a congregation someday. Well, shall we?”
He led the way into the rectory through a rear door. Owen lagged behind them, then hastened to catch up. As he did, he said, “You’ve got a lovely garden, Mr. Amstead. Are those peach trees?”
“Yes, and apricot. I make my own jams and jellies, something I learned from my darling grandmother. I’d be honored if you’d sample some with our tea.”
The vicar disappeared down a hallway after inviting Phoebe and Owen to make themselves at home in his parlor. He reappeared a few minutes later with clean hands and wearing a change of clothing.
He bustled past them into the kitchen. “I’ll just set the kettle to boil. . . .”
Soon they were enjoying steaming cups of strong tea and plates of toast with the promised jam. Phoebe tried both varieties and found them excellent, as good as anything Mrs. Ellison made at home. “You’ve got quite a talent, Mr. Amstead.” She noticed Owen staring down at his toast and jam with a vaguely troubled expression. “Don’t you think so, Owen?”
He looked up as if startled from a reverie. “Yes. Yes, indeed. Very good.”
The vicar accepted their compliments with a modest nod. “Now tell me, what might I do for you, Lady Phoebe?”
She set her cup and saucer aside. “I wished to speak to you about Elliot Ivers.”
“Ah, yes. Poor young man.”
“Then you do have some sympathy for him.”
“I do, Lady Phoebe. Anyone can see he is not quite . . . well . . . right.”
Phoebe looked to Owen for encouragement. He nodded once, indicating that she was doing well enough on her own. They had agreed Owen would only intervene if the vicar showed signs of balking. “I had a talk with Constable Brannock this morning, and he said if Elliot is convicted, he could be sent to an asylum.”
The vicar chewed pensively at a corner of his toast. “And you don’t wish this to happen.”
“No, I don’t. I believe there are extenuating circumstances behind Elliot’s actions. What’s more, I don’t believe he meant to harm you. Everything I’ve learned about Elliot in the past couple of days leads me to believe a past trauma sent him into a panic when he saw the flame from your match.”
Mr. Amstead, too, deposited his cup and saucer on a side table. With a frown, he crossed one leg over the other. “And what might this trauma be?”
“You won’t be surprised to hear it was a fire, when Elliot was a boy.” She told him about the fire at St. James Church and the death of the vicar there, and about how Elliot and his mother disappeared afterward. He appeared to give Phoebe the whole of his attention, his complexion deepening, his lips compressing, and his shoulders hunching as he leaned forward in his chair.
“Miss Finch’s nephew?” he murmured when Phoebe left off. He silently mulled over the revelations, and Phoebe didn’t interrupt. Several long moments passed, and then he spoke again. “Are you certain—quite certain of all this?”
This time, Owen issued a small admonition with his dark eyes. Be honest. Phoebe cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I’m only certain of the relation between Elliot and Miss Finch. The rest I surmised based on evidence from speaking with Pastor Davis in Chadham. But it all fits, doesn’t it?”
“Except for the years where there is no record of Elliot.” Mr. Amstead sat back in his chair and uncrossed his legs. “Knowledge of those years would confirm or deny that Elliot was the child who survived the fire.”
“Yes.” Phoebe couldn’t deny it. Her hopes for Elliot began to wane. If she couldn’t prove the past trauma of the fire, how could she persuade the vicar to drop the assault charges? “I’m sorry we wasted your time, Mr. Amstead.”
She started to rise, but the vicar gestured for her to remain sitting. “I didn’t say you wasted my time, my dear. Whether or not Elliot was the boy who watched a church go up in flames, taking a beloved pastor with it, he is still deserving of our sympathy and our assistance. I shall speak to Inspector Perkins about dropping the charges. What’s more, I’ll suggest he release Elliot into my supervision. I believe I can help the young man.” A playful gleam entered his eyes. “I’ll be careful not to light my pipe anywhere near him.”
Phoebe surged to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Amstead. This is most kind of you. I cannot thank you enough.”
They left shortly after. Owen was oddly quiet as they drove back through Kenswick. Phoebe was about to question him when he said, “Something about that seemed . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Too easy? I’ll admit there was a moment when I thought all hope for Elliot was lost.”
“Perhaps. But it’s as though from the moment we arrived, some memory has been trying to break through all the other noise in my head.”
“What on earth do you mean?” With a laugh, Phoebe changed gears.
“I don’t know. It started in the garden, actually. It’s probably nothing.”
“Maybe it was the scent of the peach and apricot blossoms. They say aromas are particularly keen when it comes to arousing deep-seated memories. Perhaps you’re remembering a similar garden from long ago.”
“That must be it.” He crossed his arms and hunkered lower in the seat, and said little else during the trek back to Little Barlow.
* * *
That afternoon, Eva accompanied Lord Wroxly and the girls into the forest beyond the park for their daily science lesson. Today they searched for varieties of moss, and to assist them, Lord Wroxly carried a magnifying glass and a copy of Elementary Botany by Henry Edmonds. To Eva’s mind, the book looked rather tattered and out of date, but she supposed not much could have changed about moss since its publication.
She hadn’t traipsed amongst the pines since last Christmas. Like the gamekeeper’s cottage, the forest evoked frightening memories. These she kept to herself and kept pace with the others, though she would have preferred retracing her steps to the house. The girls, at least, seemed in high spirits, but then they had come to appreciate Lord Wroxly’s outdoorsy lessons when compared to their much more structured tutorials with Lady Wroxly. Eva believed the relinquishing of school uniforms also added to their cheerfulness, and she was glad to see Zara in a simple blouse and flounced skirt beneath her light coat, rather than in something Jane Timmons could never hope to wear.
Then again, judging from the news Zara had received from her parents, she might not be wearing clothes designed in Paris anymore, either.
“Gather round, ladies,” Lord Wroxly said, opening his arms wide. During their walk across the gardens and park, Eva couldn’t help noticing, in the sunlight, how much his lordship’s hair had thinned in recent months, or how much more lined his skin had b
ecome. Lord Wroxly had ruled over Foxwood with what the staff often called his kindly velvet fist for nearly forty years. Sadness clutched her heart. She couldn’t imagine this place without him.
He led the girls to a yew tree where he bent his rather formidable girth at the waist and held his magnifying glass close to a patch of fuzzy green at the base. “You, too, Eva. One is never too old to learn.”
“Why must we learn about moss, Lord Wroxly?” Zara’s question at one time would have been peevish, but today her voice carried only curiosity.
“Do you not realize, my dear, that in addition to moss being an important seed bed for other plants and a home for small organisms within the forest, some species of moss is used for fuel, and was even used during the war for medicinal purposes. Moss, once cleaned and dried, can be applied to wounds beneath bandages to prevent corruption. Many a soldier has moss to thank for his limbs, indeed for his very life.”
“A quite practical application for science, then,” Jane commented with a satisfied lift of her brow.
“Correct,” Lord Wroxly said. “Now then, each of you will have a turn with the magnifier. I believe I’ve found some spores here. . . .”
While Eva appreciated Lord Wroxly’s enthusiasm and the girls’ good-natured attention to the lesson, her mind wandered. Lady Phoebe had managed a quick telephone call earlier, transferred belowstairs to Mrs. Sanders’s office, to let Eva know about her conversation with Constable Brannock. She wondered how Lady Phoebe had fared with the reverend Mr. Amstead. Had she been able to appeal to his charitable side and convince him not to press charges against Elliot? If so, then what? Knowing Lady Phoebe, she would have no trouble persuading her grandfather to provide the young man with work and a home here at Foxwood.
Questions, however, continued to linger. Why so much secrecy about his past? Yes, the fire, but he had been a small child at the time. What dangers did Miss Finch perceive? If Eva had learned one thing during her years in service, it was that no secret could ever be thoroughly protected. Someone, somewhere, always discovered the truth. So who else might know of Elliot’s identity?
A burst of laughter startled her from her speculation. She looked up just as Amelia held the magnifying glass to her eye, making it appear huge. The girls laughed, and next she held it up to her lips and pursed them tight. Zara reached for it, but Lord Wroxly redirected their attention back to the spongy growth on the north sides of the trees.
Zara. . . . A sensation welled up inside of Eva—a pressing urgency that she had missed, or perhaps disregarded, something important.
Zara . . . Miss Finch . . . Elliot.
Her breath hitched. Zara’s marks. Miss Finch had changed them—not Miss Sedgewick as they had first suspected, but the headmistress herself. Why—why would she falsify official school records and thus risk her employment? Not for money. Not for luxuries. No, those would have been Miss Sedgewick’s reasons.
To protect Elliot?
The remainder of the lesson went on interminably while Eva prayed Lady Phoebe would be home by the time Lord Wroxly led them out of the forest. When at last the lesson ended, it was all she could do not to run, as the girls did, up the sweep of lawn and through the gardens. After letting herself in through the service entrance, she asked several of the staff whether Lady Phoebe had returned home. Their shrugs fueled her agitation, until Mrs. Sanders approached with a disapproving frown and a stiff stride that rustled her housekeeper’s skirts.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Sanders?” Had Lady Julia complained again about Eva’s unavailability? Well, then she had better speak to her grandfather about it, for Lord Wroxly had asked her to accompany the girls outside.
“It’s Lady Phoebe.”
Eva’s heart surged to her throat. Her knees threatened to give way. “What’s happened?”
The housekeeper’s scowl deepened. “She’s in the valet’s service room, waiting for you.” With a shake of her head and a cluck of her tongue, Mrs. Sanders retreated down the corridor.
Eva let out a whoosh of relief. For a moment, she had thought perhaps her dear lady had been in an accident, that her motorcar had gone off the road and . . .
But no, it was merely Mrs. Sanders feeling out of sorts to have one of the family trespass on her territory. In Mrs. Sanders’s view, the family shouldn’t even know the way to the back staircase.
She hurried into the valet’s service room, which she shared with Lady Wroxly’s lady’s maid and Lord Wroxly’s valet for the cleaning and polishing of footwear, ironing, mending, and pretreating fine laundry. One entire wall of shelves held polishes, cleaning solutions, brushes, and buffing cloths. A small sink occupied one corner, an old potbellied stove stood opposite.
Lady Phoebe sat perched on a stool at the wide worktable. She smiled as soon as Eva entered the room. “Mr. Amstead has agreed not to press charges against Elliot. He’ll speak to Inspector Perkins, and has even volunteered to find a place for him. I don’t know, though. I’d like to see him here at Foxwood. There would be so much more to occupy him on the estate than at a church.” She paused and scrutinized Eva. “Aren’t you pleased?”
“I am, my lady.”
“You don’t look it.” Her expression turned serious. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing, my lady. Except that something occurred to me, and I’ve been most eager to discuss it with you. It’s about Elliot.”
“By all means, tell me.”
Eva pulled up a stool beside her, and only briefly reflected that several months ago she would not have dared take such a liberty with any of her ladies. How things had changed between her and this lady. “This afternoon, I went with your grandfather and the girls out to the forest to observe moss.”
“Moss? How very interesting.” Lady Phoebe’s tone suggested she thought just the opposite.
“Exactly, my lady. My mind wandered, and I began thinking about Elliot and Miss Finch and the secret she seemed so desperate to protect. And then suddenly it struck me.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Lady Zara’s marks. Why would Miss Finch have changed them? What I think, my lady, is that possibly Lady Zara somehow discovered the truth about Elliot.”
Lady Phoebe gasped. “And Zara blackmailed her into changing her marks? Do you think she would do such a thing?”
“Lady Zara these past couple of days? Perhaps not. But the Lady Zara we met at school?” She didn’t finish the thought, but let Lady Phoebe mull it over, which she did with little nods that grew more pronounced with each passing moment.
“Have we been wrong to trust her? Is this change for the better merely an act?”
“I don’t wish to believe that, my lady.”
“Nor do I. Nor do I wish to believe that any student would resort to something as underhanded as blackmail. But if she did, then both Miss Sedgewick and Miss Finch are exonerated of altering school records. Poor Miss Finch. Poor Elliot.” Frowning, she slid off the stool. “Once again, we’re left with suspicions and too little information. Eva, this reminds me of Christmas, when Lord Allerton’s death seemed to center around Julia. Only this time, it’s Elliot and now Lady Zara. Their names come up again and again—too often to be ignored.”
Yes, that had occurred to Eva as well. Still, she voiced a caution. “Lady Julia turned out to be innocent of all blame, my lady.”
“And I hold out the same hope for Lady Zara. But I don’t intend to go on presuming things.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“I’m going to speak to Zara. Quite bluntly. Tonight.”
CHAPTER 18
Phoebe waited until after well after dinner, when everyone else had retired for the night. As they had agreed beforehand, Eva knocked on her door and came in. “The girls are all in bed, my lady. I left Zara alone in her room, reading a book. Now is as good a time as any.”
“Thank you. Wait here, please.” Phoebe buttoned up her wrapper and tiptoed down the corridor. At Zara’s door she knocked softly—she didn’t wish to attract the
notice of the other girls—and went in.
Zara glanced up from her book, surprise plain on her face. “Is anything wrong?”
Phoebe might have answered in the negative, but why reassure the girl when there indeed might be something terribly wrong. Silently, she crossed the room, aware of Zara’s growing curiosity, and sat facing her at the edge of the bed.
Zara’s brow furrowed. “Something is wrong.”
“You tell me, Zara.”
She closed her book, a guide to flower garden design, and set it aside. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Phoebe hesitated, but only for dramatic effect. She wanted Zara off balance as well as off guard. Then, bluntly, she said, “Why did Miss Finch change your marks?”
Zara’s violet-blue eyes opened wide. “What? That’s absurd. She wouldn’t do any such thing, I’m sure.”
“Wouldn’t she, Zara? I saw the evidence of it myself, yet I said nothing until the likely reason for it occurred to me.”
“What likely reason? You’re accusing me of . . . of what?” The threat of a sob thickened Zara’s protest.
“First tell me the truth. Did you persuade Miss Finch to change your grades?”
“No! Of course not. I . . .”
“You what, Zara? It’s time to come clean about what happened and about what you know.”
Her distraught features rearranged themselves into mystification. “What I know—about what?”
Either the girl excelled as an actress, or in this, at least, she was telling the truth. “All right, let’s start again. I know Miss Finch changed your marks. There is no use denying it. The question is why.”
“But I told you, I don’t know . . .” Zara grabbed the pillow beside her and hugged it in front of her. The tears rolling down her cheeks seemed genuine enough. Phoebe hardened her features and waited in silence, forcing Zara to be the next to speak. She hadn’t long to wait.
Zara swiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, but that didn’t stem the tide of falling tears. “I had to. If my parents had known how badly I was doing, they’d have ordered me home from school and . . . and . . . oh, Phoebe, it would have been dreadful. They’d have taken away all my privileges and been positively beastly. I’d have been kept under lock and key with nowhere to go and no company. Even my parents wouldn’t have been there. They wouldn’t have cut their travels short. They’d simply have palmed me off on the servants. And to think now, because of their recklessness, I have to leave school anyway, with no future or husband or anything to look forward to.” She dropped her face to the pillow, weeping as though her heart had broken.
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