The Black Diamond

by Joan Smith

  He sounded perfectly sincere. A certain grim set of the jaws indicated even that he disliked her more than he said. I had wondered occasionally if there was a romance between them. If there ever had been, it was surely dead now.

  “Some of the servants share your view. She has never behaved badly to me.”

  “Ah, then she doesn’t know you’re after her husband,” he said, turning facetious. “Someone ought to lend her a copy of Jane Eyre, eh, Miss Bingham?”

  “Molly is reading it at present.”

  “I tried it myself, but didn’t care for it. Miss Thompson urged it on me so strenuously that I gave it a go, but in the end gave it back to her.”

  “Perhaps I’ll read it again to refresh myself in the art of chasing Mr. Palin,” I answered frivolously.

  “London will be your chance. Bess tells me you are to go with them. I met her in the village yesterday afternoon,” he explained hastily, taking the idea I was jealous, I suppose. “It will be a chance for you to see your folks again. Where do they live?”

  It was odd he should pose that same irrelevant question that Mrs. Palin had asked. I gave him the same false answer, but when he went on to ask my uncle’s name, I could not but wonder if he intended checking up on me. Surely I had said nothing to betray myself.

  Why was Mr. Rupert’s mind, presumably innocent, equally as suspicious as madame’s? I was edgy for the remainder of the drive. I used the inclement weather as an excuse to be taken home early. He did not ask me out on the next Sunday afternoon, nor did I do a thing to encourage him to.

  When Mr. Palin came to the nursery after dinner, his wife was not with him, as I expected she would be. It was a relief. Bobby was happily excited to hear he was going for a drive in the carriage next morning.

  “Bingie going too?” he asked.

  “If she would like to,” Mr. Palin replied, looking a question to me.

  I felt an eagerness to join them, and a determination that I would not. This determination was aided by the thought that Mrs. Palin would join them. As if reading my thoughts, Mr. Palin went on, “Plenty of room in the carriage. There will be only Bobby and myself.”

  That lurching in my chest told me how vital it was that I refuse. “What do you say, Bingie?” he asked, regarding me closely.

  “There is no need for me to go, is there?” I asked, in a very businesslike way.

  “None in the world, unless it would give you pleasure. We would both be happy for your company, but I see you prefer a day of rest. Who shall blame you?”

  “I do have a great many things to do. With Christmas coming, I must make some preparations,” I said. Their two pairs of eyes regarded me rather unhappily.

  “Bingie come,” Bobby urged. The father said no more, but continued looking with interest for my final answer.

  It was slow in coming, though I had no real intention of changing my mind unless Mr. Palin had some useful chore for me to perform en route, or while there. He had none. “One does not argue with a lady’s decision,” Mr. Palin explained to his son, “no matter how much he dislikes it.”

  This was a new wrinkle, to be calling the nursemaid a “lady,” and treating her like one. He turned to me then. “I shall bring you the doctor’s report about the hearing aids. We both know the bone-conductor horn is best, but it must be verified by the doctor. I hope you enjoy your little holiday, Miss Bingie.”

  “Thank you.”

  I would enjoy it a good deal more if I were going with them. Too much. The father did not remain long with us that evening. He would have the whole next day with his son. I could not but wonder how he would spend his evening. I knew there would be no call to the study. That could not continue now that his wife was home. I had the solace of the servants in the kitchen, and Cook’s bottomless pot of tea. Perhaps he had the solace of Regina’s company. Whatever Bess might say, they were on good enough terms that she knew everything that was passing in her household. Mr. Palin had told her all about our work together in the nursery, which removed the air of an illicit thing, and removed too a little of the fascination for me. But he was truly disappointed that I was not going on the trip with him.

  Chapter Twenty

  I looked forward with some pleasure to my day of holiday. Bobby took breakfast with his father on that occasion, coming above to put on his coat and hat and bid me goodbye at about eight-thirty. He looked handsome in his brown overcoat with the beaver collar. It was my plan to use the free time to make my gifts for Christmas. Knowing Molly was making me something, I wanted to return the compliment. What I had in mind, and in fact in preparation already, was a warm nightgown of flower-spangled flannelette. It was to be finer than an ordinary gown, featuring full sleeves, a touch of manufactured lace at the neck and pretty ruffles round the bottom.

  Before I took out my work, I went down the front stairs to see if the post had arrived. I was awaiting a reply from Aunt Harriet to my last letter. Martin had beaten me to the silver salver on the hall table, which was the resting place of the family letters. She was sorting through the envelopes, extracting those which were for herself or madame. She held one in her fingers longer than the rest, gazing at it, as if uncertain of its fate. It was a creamy envelope, of the sort my aunt used.

  “Is that for me, Martin?” I asked, hurrying forward.

  She looked startled. In her curiosity, she had not heard my approach. The envelope was quickly slid beneath the three or four others she had put aside for her mistress. ‘‘No, Bingham, it is for madame. From Monsieur Arouet,” she added, to give a touch of conviction to her answer.

  I felt instinctively she was lying. Martin was brusque, never volunteering an unnecessary word. She only embroidered her answer to conceal a lie. Fearing, yet hoping, that the letter was the information sought from my aunt, I pressed to get my hands on it. “Are you quite sure? Would you mind just checking the name?” I asked, trying to see over her shoulder.

  “Quite sure, Bingham,” she said stiffly, and marched quickly away to the stairs.

  How could I get it from her, or at least determine it was in fact madame’s letter? I could not, unless I brought it to a showdown. She was already setting her foot on the bottom stair. I looked after her helplessly. But perhaps I was mistaken. Aunt Harriet was not the only lady to use cream stationery. I skimmed through the letters remaining on the tray. There was none for me, but two remained for madame. In her guilty haste to be off with my letter, Martin had not even finished sorting the mail.

  For a moment I hesitated, wondering just how incriminating my aunt’s reply might be. If she had a name for me on that ointment, or if she had managed to get hold of the book and sent me the missing page, my whole secrecy was stripped away. I must be highly suspect in any case, for Martin to have taken my letter. No matter, if I was to be dismissed, I might as well learn it now. I took her two letters upstairs and tapped on the door.

  Martin answered my knock. Glancing past her, I saw madame was that very moment slitting open my envelope. “In your hurry, you left two of your mistress’s letters downstairs,” I said to Martin, glaring at her. “Are you quite sure you did not take mine in error?”

  “You are not Mrs. Palin, are you?” was the sneering answer. “The letter was addressed to her.” She snatched the two letters from my hands and slammed the door in my face.

  A tinkle of laughter came softly through it. Madame, enjoying herself at my expense. That melodious, feminine sound had never emanated from the lips of the dour Martin.

  An impotent rage consumed me. “Fool!” I said to myself. I hadn’t even the wits to see who those two letters were from, or where they were from. If one had been from Monsieur Arouet, for instance, I would have proof Martin had lied. I was agitated, angry, and a little frightened when I went to my room. Stitching on Molly’s gown would calm me. The undemanding chore would allow me time to think, to plan what I should do.

  I had done no more than take out the lace and buttons from their wrapping when there was a bold knock at the
door. Not Molly’s gentle tap, or Bess’s quick knock and quicker turning of the knob, for she respected no one’s privacy. It had the commanding sound of Martin. She was there, staring at me like a lizard when I opened the door.

  “Madame would like to see you. At once.”

  “Very well.”

  I followed her down the hall and around the corner into the grander part of the house, my mind was seething with conjecture. The letter—was madame acting so quickly to turn me off? What excuse would she give? Dismissal was not what she had in mind. Madame was all smiles and sweetness when I entered.

  “Jane, dear, do come in,” she offered. “You will think me an ogre, and so I am.” She was still in her peignoir, an extremely elegant white lace one, with a wisp of lace on her head, a sort of vestigial nightcap. A silver tray rested beside her on the table, holding a coffee pot and one cup. She had not breakfasted with her husband and the child, though she had apparently been up in time to do so.

  She pointed to a chair beside her. I sat, alive with curiosity. “The thing is, I am in a bit of a bind. I have put on five pounds, and all my gowns are tight on me. Martin usually sees to my wardrobe, but she is busy making me a new ballgown for Christmas. I want to impose on your good humor to let out my riding habit and this blue afternoon gown for me, while you have the day free. You have nothing else to do, have you?”

  “I was planning to make some Christmas presents.”

  “What a busy little bee you are. I shall pay you for the sewing, and you can buy presents instead. I’ll give you a guinea. A day’s wages, now that Robert has increased your salary. You are fortunate to have such a good-paying position, Jane. Most girls would envy you. But both Robert and I are fond of you. You must help me, dear Jane.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Palin,” I answered. There was a touch of vinegar bubbling beneath her honied words. My free day was snatched away from me. The blue gown was dumped in my lap, instructions were given as to how much it must be let out.

  “You can sit with Martin in her room,” Mrs. Palin finished up.

  A worse prospect than spending a day with Martin would be difficult to imagine. “Oh no!” I exclaimed quickly, before thinking how it revealed my dislike of the woman.

  “She is a dragon, is she not?” Mrs. Palin laughed. “I know exactly how you feel. The servants all dislike her, but Martin has been with me forever. She was my wet nurse—imagine! We go back to the cradle together. But I shan’t inflict her on you. Work in the nursery if you like, or in the kitchen, where you will have Cook and Molly for company.”

  “I’ll take them to the kitchen,” I replied, gathering up the outfits.

  “Yes, you’ll feel at home there,” she said, with no emphasis, but wishing to stress my capacity as her menial, I believe. “Just take the blue for now. I’ll try it when you’re finished, then give you the riding habit.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I was too disappointed to be pleasant. As I sat with her gown on my lap at the kitchen table later, it occurred to me that at least the letter about which I was so concerned must have been for madame after all. She would not have permitted me to stay if it had been what I feared. She had once mentioned giving me jewelry, but had not mentioned it again, so it was not the Rosalie ring trick she meant to use.

  It took the better part of the morning to let out the gown, down both sides. Madame’s gowns were works of art, with double seams, all nicely finished inside. I was in no hurry. I would only be given more gowns to do if I worked quickly. If these two did not fit her, neither must scores of others. Actually, she did not look any bigger than usual to me, but five pounds is not a great amount. The scent of her perfume rose to my nostrils as I worked. I lunched with Cook and the other servants in the kitchen.

  “Madame don’t want no lunch today,” a footman informed Cook. “She’ll have a sandwich later, after she gets back from her ride.”

  When I took the gown upstairs, Martin silently took it up from me and handed me the riding habit. It was not the smart green one I had seen on madame on other occasions. This was a black serge, older and less fashionable. With Martin guarding the door, I could not enter to spy for my cream envelope, as I had hoped to do.

  The riding habit was a bigger job than the gown, as it consisted of jacket and skirt, both of which had to be let out. I did the jacket first, noticing it was well worn, not the sort of apparel usually seen on madame. The cuffs were nearly threadbare. I was beginning to wonder if this job was not a punishment for me, or a ruse to keep me busy, and out of mischief.

  “Does Mrs. Palin ever wear this?” I asked Cook, who was the only one in the kitchen with me at that time.

  “I haven’t seen it on her back since she got married. She used to wear it when she was here visiting, before April was dead.”

  “I bet she won’t wear it now either,” I said, miffed at my wasted time and effort. The jacket done, I set it aside and took up the skirt. As I shook it out, a small packet of pink paper fluttered to the ground. It was a packet of headache powder, the most popular brand. I unfolded the paper to test it. Sure that it was that and nothing more lethal, I stuffed it back into the skirt pocket, where I noticed there were more of the powders. Six in all, all of them wrapped up in their own paper. Six seemed like a large amount to be carrying in a skirt pocket. One, possibly two, in case of emergency, but ix? Why, a full box was only eight packages. One would think she would have kept them in the box. The little tin box, two inches long, hinged on the side.... The hair on the back of my scalp prickled.

  “What is it then, dear?” Cook asked, looking at me. “Oh, have you got a headache?” she asked, looking at the familiar pink packets.

  “No, these were in Mrs. Palin’s pocket.”

  “Were they? She used to have the migraine quite often when she first came. Carried them around with her, I believe. They must have been in her pocket all the time. I don’t suppose they lose their power over a year or so. You might as well keep them, or give them back to her.”

  I returned them to the pocket, and went on with my work, but my mind was busy figuring that madame would have worn this habit to the moors on her rides, that the tin box with the reddish-brown ointment had been found there. She had the box handy in her pocket, dumped the contents into her pocket, and put the ointment into her powder box.

  But who had given it to her, and for what purpose? She had not even brought it home with her, but left it there, hidden under the rock. Or possibly brought it home and used it, then taken it back. If it was poison, she would not want to have it found in her room, or on her person.

  “Cook, when did madame’s parrot die?” I asked.

  “What in the world brought that to mind, dear?”

  “I was just curious. Molly mentioned it to me. I would like to have seen it. I’ve never seen a parrot.”

  “It was a nasty beast. It was last summer sometime. I remember Miss Thompson was still here. She was helping them catch the bird. It wasn’t long before she left. It was late in the summer.”

  “It died the same way as Huck—the same symptoms.”

  “Parrot fever,” she reminded me. I thought it was red-ointment fever myself. It was a curious coincidence that madame had been using her poison at the time, approximately, when Rosalie disappeared.

  I stitched on and on till my eyes were ready to cross, my neck aching, and my fingers punched full of needle holes. I never could manage a thimble. When I took the habit upstairs, Martin came to the door to accept it. Mrs. Palin had returned from her ride. She was lying on top of her bed, flipping through fashion magazines.

  “Thank you, Jane,” she called, without getting up. “The blue gown fits perfectly. Give her the guinea, Martin,” she directed her servant.

  With a face like Portland stone, Martin dropped the guinea into my fingers. Her sneering look made me feel like the lowliest sort of menial.

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Palin,” I said in a voice of offense, and returned to my chamber. I had not been there si
nce morning. There was some feeling of strangeness, impossible to pinpoint, but giving me the impression someone had been there. Some of the furniture or personal clutter was out of its customary place, probably. There was no scent of madame’s perfume, but I knew as surely as I held a guinea in my hand that the room had been searched. My lingerie drawers confirmed it. The stacks of underwear had been shifted about. I had not seen Bess in several hours. Bess or Martin, one of them had been back, but it hardly mattered. I had left nothing to give me away.

  I ate dinner in the kitchen. Immediately afterward, I took a quick run up to my room, hoping to catch Martin red-handed. There was no one there. I sat on the edge of the bed, uneasy, unsettled in my mind. While I sat thinking, there was a tap on the door. Madame waited politely for me to invite her in.

  “You will think me ungracious, Jane, but I was fagged from my ride when you brought my habit back. You did a wonderful job. Won’t you join me for dinner this evening? Martin has a migraine, and I must eat alone.”

  “I have just had dinner,” I was happy to tell her.

  “Of course you would have! I forgot, but come and have a glass of wine with me downstairs before I eat at least. I usually have one with Robert. It gives me an appetite. Not that I need it, the way I am putting on weight.”

  “Very well, I’ll come,” I agreed. It would be a disagreeable visit, but something might be learned from it.

  We went below together, madame resplendent in a black gown, trimmed with the palest of yellow roses around the bodice. She was as elegantly outfitted as though she were entertaining a large party, and I wore my usual navy workday gown. “Brandy?” she asked, lifting a cut-glass decanter.

  “Oh no, that is too strong for me. Sherry, if you please.”

  She poured brandy for herself, the sherry for me. As she gave it to me, I noticed she was wearing the mourning ring. This interesting artifact always riveted my attention. I felt a premonition she would remind me of her offer of a piece of jewelry, that she was going to offer it to me.