by Jane Steen
Why on earth would Justin’s physician think he had business with me? I knew why Justin had consulted him, but that matter had died with my husband. Was he simply here to offer his condolences?
I stood up, brushing a few specks of dust off my bombazine, and prepared to face the day’s first interruption. I had little time for physicians. In my experience, they were dirty, untidy, ill-educated individuals with more arrogance than their position in life warranted. My mother had always despised them.
To my surprise, the man who walked quietly and confidently into my morning room looked as if he belonged there. I found myself extending my hand to him as if to a visiting gentleman; he took it and bowed over it, quite at his ease.
“I’m sorry to make your acquaintance under such distressing circumstances, Lady Helena.” His voice was a pleasant baritone with no French accent save, perhaps, in the way he pronounced his words precisely and clearly. Englishmen often had a tendency to mumble.
“Let me offer you my sincerest condolences for the loss of your husband,” he continued. “Sir Justin was an intelligent, worthy man, and I had a great deal of respect for him.” Monsieur Fortier’s expression held sympathy and warmth in just the right degree. “You no doubt know that he consulted me in my professional capacity.”
He seated himself in the chair I indicated and declined my offer of refreshment. He was dressed for a country day’s work in a plain black morning coat and riding breeches and brought with him the pleasant aromas of leather, horse, and fresh air, indicating that he’d come on horseback. His boots were worn but well-polished, and he’d clearly scraped them carefully before entering the house.
“I did know Sir Justin had consulted you.” I held his gaze. The question of why Justin had consulted Monsieur Fortier was a delicate one, but I was no blushing bride.
Looking directly at Monsieur Fortier gave me a chance to appreciate the man’s appearance, which was pleasing. He was much the same height as Justin had been, six feet tall. Like my late husband, he was trim and slender, although more solidly built. His shoulders, to be sure, were a deal broader than Justin’s, but then he was very much younger, not yet thirty. His black hair was closely cropped, his beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were his most striking feature; an odd shade somewhere between green and amber, they were large, luminous, and thickly lashed.
“Did you come to speak with me about Sir Justin’s—health?” I prompted, suddenly aware that I had been looking at him for too long.
“Not exactly.” Monsieur Fortier seemed slightly uncomfortable but clearly made up his mind to proceed. “I had the melancholy task of receiving Sir Justin’s body in a consulting room I keep at the Dermody pottery, for the benefit of the workers there. It was close to where they found him, and I have a suitable table. As it turned out, the inspection of the body by the inquest jury was also held there.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to speak to you about such matters.”
“It’s quite all right. In some ways, it’s better to hear about what actually happened than to leave it to my imagination.” Although my imagination was supplying more detail as I spoke. The water dripping down the table from Justin’s clothing, the men leaning over him, the smell of the river . . .
I pushed the intrusive thoughts away and sought for something to say. “I’m glad it was you who cared for Sir Justin at such a time. After all, he had taken you into his confidence; you were not a stranger to him. Such things matter.”
“I suppose they do.” Monsieur Fortier didn’t exactly smile, but an expression of warmth and sympathy suffused his face. “Did you hear anything about the inquest from Lord Broadmere or the mayor?”
“Very little. Sir Edward tried to spare my feelings. My brother merely informed me that the inquest had taken place and a verdict of accidental death by drowning had been rendered. He is not a communicative man.”
“No, he isn’t.” The sympathy in Monsieur Fortier’s eyes intensified. He was not, I thought, a man who could hide his emotions easily. Perhaps that was his French heritage.
“Lady Helena,” Monsieur Fortier continued, “I’ve spent several days asking myself whether I should burden you with my doubts.”
“Doubts?” I wrinkled my brow.
“I have no proof, of course. If I had proof, I would have spoken more publicly. You see—I’m not sure Sir Justin’s death was accidental.”
The room seemed to tilt sideways. I was suddenly aware of movement as Fortier left his chair to crouch by my side. One hand encircled my wrist, fingers on the pulse point. The other rested gently against my shoulder, as if to prevent me from falling forward. Some detached part of my mind noted that his hands were quite beautiful, his fingers long and slender with neatly kept nails.
“Breathe calmly,” he was telling me. “Slowly in through your nose—that’s it—and slowly out again. Think about nothing but your breathing.”
His fingers pressed a little more firmly on my wrist, and his eyes grew thoughtful. Counting my heartbeats, no doubt.
“No, I don’t think you’ll faint now,” he said after a few seconds. “I’m sorry I gave you such a shock. I was a fool not to have led up to the subject more gently.”
“I have no intention of fainting.” I pulled my wrist away from his grasp. He let me go, straightening up and returning to his chair. I waited until he was seated before continuing, taking the opportunity to gather my thoughts and breathing deeply so that my voice would not tremble.
“Please explain why you think Justin—why you think my husband could have died in any other way than by accident. My brother and brother-in-law are both quite certain his death was an involuntary tragedy.”
To my surprise, Fortier smiled. It was a nice smile, and I had to acknowledge he was an attractive man. It was infuriating to realize I was even capable of such thoughts at a time like this.
“You are a brave woman,” Fortier said. “No tears and no hysterics. Sir Justin once told me that—how did he put it? —he admired tremendously your coolness in the face of adversity. He thought you the embodiment of that peculiarly English virtue.”
“Sir Justin was quite wrong, as it happens. My ability to control my feelings is distressingly variable.”
Fortier smiled again. “Sir Justin was biased, of course. He was exceedingly fond of you.”
“And I was fond of him.” Fortier would not have thought me so brave if he’d been able to feel the lump in my throat.
“Quite so.” For a moment Fortier looked embarrassed, as if he indeed realized he’d driven me to the edge of tears. But he quickly recovered.
“It pains me to have to discuss this matter with you directly, but the alternatives were Lord Broadmere and Sir Edward. Both of them heard the vigorous rebuttal from Littleberry’s other medical men when I raised my theory during the inquest. I think their minds are made up that I’m either out of my wits or have some reason of my own for suggesting foul play.”
“Oh, Sir Edward is far more sensible than you’re giving him credit for. Admittedly, my brother might think you out of your wits. He thinks most people are, himself excepted. So are you going to tell me upon what basis you have built your theory? Stop beating around the bush, Monsieur Fortier. My heartbeat is now steady, I’m sure the color has returned to my cheeks, and I’m determined not to scream or cry or become unwell. You’re quite safe.”
I curled my fingers into my palm, digging my nails in. I had made myself sound braver than I felt. This was not going to be easy—but I owed it to Justin to listen to the man’s theories, even if nobody else would.
“Very well,” said Fortier. “When I examined Sir Justin—given my proximity to the event, I was the first physician to do so—I remarked on some bruising around his face, neck, and upper torso. To me, those bruises were not consistent with a simple slip and fall into the river. I felt he might have struggled with someone just prior to his death or been held down in some way. After all, he was not a young man, and his physique was on the slender side. I felt he mig
ht have been held under water long enough to lose consciousness. A complete drowning would soon follow.”
I dug my nails in harder, fighting nausea. “And none of the other men agreed with this notion?”
He shook his head. “When Farmer Hatherall found him, Sir Justin was caught up in a large section of willow tree that had fallen into the river. It’s one of the reasons I find the accident theory so unconvincing. If Sir Justin had fallen in and couldn’t climb up the bank for some reason, I don’t see him panicking so thoroughly that he’d be dead before he encountered the willow. He could have used it to climb out or at least clung to it and shouted for assistance.”
“Could he have suffered the bruises trying to climb out on the willow?”
“If he’d been trying to climb out, I think the bruises would more likely have been on his hands or arms. And there would have been other signs—scratches, broken nails, that kind of thing.”
“It all sounds very vague and uncertain,” I said.
Fortier shrugged. “Medicine is more of an art than a science. But you see, Lady Helena, I have an advantage that the other medical men don’t. I’ve worked a great deal with the poor people of this district. I’m regrettably familiar with the bruises a person receives when subjected to violent holding or manipulation. Of course in most cases I see, the victim is a woman or child.”
“So you have no proof to offer me, just some kind of feeling or instinct. Tell me, Monsieur Fortier, what good did you hope to achieve by coming to me?”
The physician looked down at his polished boots, then back up at me. “The good that comes when the truth is brought out into the light of day.” He shrugged. “I would have thought that, as Sir Justin’s widow, the truth of his demise would be of the utmost importance to you.”
“The fact of his demise is of the utmost importance to me,” I countered. “It has changed my life utterly. But unless you can come up with a shred of evidence, I don’t see I can do anything other than accept the verdict of the inquest.”
Which didn’t mean I wasn’t horrified at Fortier’s theory. I had the oddest sensation that I was floating—but Scott-De Quincys did not give way to vulgar hysterics, not in front of strangers in any event.
“Would you at least come down to the river to see the location where Sir Justin went in and the location of the willow tree?” Fortier continued. “This afternoon, if you can. I heard from the blacksmith that Farmer Hatherall has borrowed chains and is intending to remove the willow, as he has long planned to do. The news made up my mind about coming here.”
I was trying to formulate a reply—or at the very least a sensible question—when Odelia walked in. Fortier immediately rose to his feet, and O stopped in her tracks.
“I thought you were alone,” she said to me after favoring Fortier with a regal half nod. “Excuse me for interrupting you.”
I also rose and spoke to Fortier. “May I introduce my sister, Lady Odelia Scott-De Quincy? O, this is Monsieur Fortier. He’s a physician who treated Justin for some ailments and has come to offer his condolences.”
I shot Fortier a warning glance, which he clearly understood. He made a few appropriately conventional remarks about Justin and our loss, which O answered just as conventionally. The interlude gave me a chance to recover my equilibrium by the time Fortier turned back to me.
“I must be on my way, Lady Helena. Thank you for receiving me. Lady Odelia, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He smiled at O, and I saw in her eyes that she found Fortier’s smile just as appealing as I did.
“Thank you for calling, Monsieur Fortier.” I held out my hand.
“I hope to see you again very soon.” He accompanied this remark by a small squeeze of my fingers before he bowed over my hand in an extremely Continental fashion. Well, if he thought I would abandon my sisters to go look at the spot where my husband died, he was wrong. I was going to be busy all afternoon.
O waited until Fortier’s footfalls were no longer audible before swiveling to face me. “Well!” was her first remark. “He’s easy on the eyes. Do you know him well?”
“I’ve never met him before in my life.” I crossed to the window seat and sat on its broad cushion, resting my forehead against a pane of glass. “Justin seemed to like him well enough. It was nice of him to call.” I closed my eyes, relaxing my brow against the cold glass and feeling the tension of the last half hour dissipate. “What would you like to do this afternoon?”
“Ah. About that. You see, I had a note this morning from a dear friend. An artist, of course. She absolutely needs me to return to Town straightaway or her study of Lancelot will be forever ruined. Would you mind terribly?”
I opened my eyes again. “Is there really such a thing as a painting emergency?”
O looped her arms around my shoulders and rested her chin on the crown of my head. “There is when your artistic temperament is sufficiently turbulent. I’m thankful my own calling is simply that—a calling, and not a torment.”
“But to leave this afternoon? What sense does that make? Even if all the trains align in perfect harmony, you won’t be in Town till very late. And Blanche will have plenty to say about bohemian manners.”
“To the devil with Blanche. I’ve already told her, as it happens. She asked me to tell you she’s suffering from nervous exhaustion and intends to sleep until dinner. And I won’t reach Town today. I have a standing offer of a room for the night in Maidstone, which gets me about halfway there. Then I can leave bright and early and devote the whole morning to fixing the disaster.”
“Maidstone?”
“I know, I know.” O hugged me tighter. “But I owe the Maidstone friend a visit, so this will kill two birds with one Maidstone, so to speak.”
I laughed, enjoying the feel of O’s arms around me. One of my earliest memories was of being carried around by her, and I often wished she wasn’t absent so often. But unlike me, O had made the wider world her home.
“You’re itching to get away from the countryside, aren’t you?” I kissed the slim hand nearest to my face, admiring its large, brilliant rings.
“Only the tiniest bit. I’d certainly like to run away from another dinner with the Marchioness of Ambition. Do you think you could persuade your lovely cook to have luncheon ready a little earlier than usual? I’m practically packed.”
5
The riverbank
So it was that by one thirty I was left alone with my letters and the troubling memory of Fortier’s visit. By quarter after two, I decided I simply couldn’t face writing another letter. And it was November after all—how many days would there be when I could still ride out? If Blanche was determined to sleep all day, she could hardly mind if I deserted her for two hours.
The efficient Guttridge had me in my riding habit in a trice. Mank, my favorite groom, had my mare, Sandy, saddled for me and waiting in the stable courtyard. He assisted me to mount up and then led out Justin’s gelding, Puck, who sidestepped and rolled his eyes at me.
“He needs a good run, m’lady,” Mank said after Puck had finally allowed him to mount.
“He certainly does. Sandy’s much lazier—she doesn’t seem to mind at all that we haven’t ridden out much lately.” I leaned down to plant a kiss on my horse’s neck. “Well, the proprieties must be observed, but you don’t have to stick too close. Once we get down to the bottom of the hill, you can take Puck off for a gallop. Heaven knows it won’t be long before we’re all knee-deep in mud, so let’s make the most of the dry weather.”
My riding habit was brown, unsuitable for mourning, but it would have to do. I knew Guttridge had the matter of my mourning clothes well in hand. I was only going on a country hack after all—down to the river.
It was wonderful to be out in the fresh air again. Justin had been on horseback every day, and I had ridden out with him two or three times a week when the weather allowed it. We had derived so much pleasure from simply riding side by side, making desultory remarks about t
he weather or the state of the fields. It hurt to know I would never have him by my side again.
Yet the day was fine and bright, although distinctly autumnal, and Sandy was always a pleasure to ride. The air smelled faintly of smoke from the refuse the farmers were burning, but I could still detect the sweetness of decaying leaves, the sharp green smell of plants that had received their first taste of frost, and the pleasant mustiness of damp earth. And, of course, the taint of what the sheep left behind them—but in our part of the country, sheep were ubiquitous.
Mank and I took the horses on a wide loop to avoid the steepest route downhill, as Mank said the fallen leaves had made the path slippery. Puck was fidgety, and I didn’t trust him to plod carefully downward. So when we eventually met the shining curve of the River Ealy, we were well upstream from where Justin had died.
A wide, safe path ran along the riverbank. The turf was well-trodden since this route provided a quick and easy way to ride, walk, or drive from Littleberry to the farms and villages along the valley. I saw no riders or carts that afternoon, only a few farm workers and villagers on foot, picking their way through the liberal sheep droppings or squashing it underfoot according to their tolerance for dirt.
“Puck’s being a bit of a devil, m’lady, if you’ll pardon the expression.” Mank swore under his breath as the gelding sidestepped. “If you don’t mind, it’s time for that gallop. I’m thinking Mile Bottom—there aren’t any ewes there for the time being, and the going’s firm.”
I nodded. “Give him a good run and catch up with me afterward. Sandy’ll be quite happy with a trot, or even a walk.”
Mank grinned and promised he’d catch me easily. He turned Puck’s head toward the long field over which Whitcombe House seemed to loom close, an optical illusion caused by the slope of the land.
I urged Sandy on with a click of my tongue, reaching to open the gate with my crop. The gate was beginning to sag to the right. I’d have to have a word with Farmer Hatherall; that gate was one of ours. One of mine, I reminded myself. It was all mine.