by Jane Steen
“The equipment was nearly all Mama’s, and much of the furniture comes from the attics. And it’s not a hobby.”
“It’s hardly a profession, so what do you call it? Or are you intending to earn money? How vulgar.”
“I have no intention of charging for my services.”
“I should hope not. Our sort never earns money.”
“Justin earned money from his sheep,” I pointed out.
“That’s money from land; that’s how a gentleman lives, even if Justin spent more time than he should on his blessed sheep. But in a man, such enthusiasm can safely be counted as an eccentricity. A lady who allows her interests to impinge upon her duties as a wife, mother, and hostess is in danger of being thought a bluestocking. A bluestocking, may I remind you, is the most odious kind of woman in existence.” She touched my cheek with a satin-gloved hand. “Soon, Baby, you will be a wife and a hostess again. Providence may even vouchsafe you the gift of motherhood—who knows? So you’re either wasting your time and money or, worse, you’re creating something that will cause strife between you and your future husband.”
“Why do you imagine I’m going to marry again? You didn’t.”
Blanche struck an attitude of noble abnegation. “I devote myself to Rawdon’s interests. A mother must sacrifice her own comfort and happiness to promote that of her children, particularly when she has a son in Rawdon’s position.”
“Rawdon” was how Blanche usually referred to her son, Dederick, who had been Viscount Rawdon before his father’s death. Deddy, as he preferred not to be called, was now the Marquess of Hastings. Blanche had married up—and she never let us forget it.
“Why don’t you call O a bluestocking?” I suppressed a grin. The reason Blanche never lectured Odelia on the evils of pursuing a vocation was because she was afraid of Odelia’s extremely sharp tongue.
“I’ll be glad when Rawdon marries,” Blanche continued, ignoring my question. “He must marry very well. He’s promised to give me a larger dress allowance if I help him find a suitable bride.” She turned toward the door. “It’s so trying to have to depend on one’s own son for the finer things in life. The late marquess had no idea how much a widowed marchioness needs to live well.”
I made a face at Blanche’s back as we walked back to the drawing room. The late marquess was thoroughly familiar with Blanche’s tastes, which were extremely expensive. He had restricted her widow’s jointure and other allowances to an amount that wouldn’t drain the estate before Deddy grew old enough to be sensible about money. Which he hadn’t; Blanche had pushed her son to the very top of society by maneuvering him into the glittering crowd that surrounded the Prince of Wales. Not only did Deddy have to maintain an establishment in keeping with such an exalted position, he had learned to play cards for exorbitantly high stakes and ride excessively costly horseflesh.
“So you’ve seen the witch’s lair, Aunt Blanche?” My niece Maryanne laughingly hooked her arm under Blanche’s as we entered the room. My siblings and assorted spouses and children were sitting in groups, digesting what I was glad to say had been rather a good dinner. The room smelled of perfume, coffee, and the sweetmeats the servants had placed around the room in china dishes.
“Who are you calling a witch?” I wrinkled my nose at Maryanne, whom I’d always liked. Thomas, who sat with his sister Lydia working out a hand of Patience, winked at me as I passed. His father hadn’t said yes to university, but faced with my offer of paying the fees if he refused, his pride wouldn’t let him say no either.
I went to sit next to Gerry, who was working on a piece of crewel embroidery. “This dress makes me look rather witch-like, I think,” I told her. “Blanche was just telling me I was in danger of becoming a bluestocking.” I accepted a cup of coffee from the footman, adding cream and sugar before I settled back onto the sofa.
Gerry’s pale blue eyes focused on me for a moment. “I don’t think there’s any risk of that,” she said. “I can’t see you not marrying again. You were always such an affectionate little thing, and you like men.”
I was taken aback. “I suppose I do,” I said after a few moments’ thought. “But why shouldn’t I marry and have some intellectual or practical pursuit as well? Mama did, and it caused no problems.”
“Do you really think that?” Gerry returned her gaze to her work, carefully inserting her needle into the wing of an embroidered parrot.
“What do you mean?” But Ned had come to join us, coffee cup in hand. He settled himself into an armchair with a grunt of satisfaction.
“You’re looking very well, my dear. That dinner was delicious—do let your cook know how much I enjoyed it.” He leaned forward a little and dropped his voice. “I wanted to thank you—for Thomas.”
“Thank me? I thought you’d be annoyed at me for forcing your hand.”
He took a sip of coffee and licked a drop from his mustache, prompting a small explosive sound from Gerry. “I’ve been waiting for years for the boy to stand up to me and tell me how much he hated being in the business.”
“You don’t really mean you’re going to pay for university, do you? With Petey’s school fees as well?” Gerry sounded exasperated. “Do you really think he’s going to amount to much as a vicar?”
“There’s nothing wrong with his brain.” Ned’s voice was a low growl. “If he applies himself, he’ll be able to get a small living somewhere just on the strength of the Scott-De Quincy connection. It’s about time the lad showed some ambition.”
“Well, at least the church is a suitable place for a gentleman’s son. And there’s no title to inherit, which is a blessing.” She smiled at her husband. Ned was just an ordinary knight, not a baronet, and Gerry, to her credit, didn’t mind that one bit.
“Thank heaven for marrying a wine merchant, eh, my love?” Ned smiled fondly back and then turned to me. “It’s good to see you host a dinner again, dear girl. You’re far too young and lovely to retreat into solitude. It’s a dashed shame about Justin.”
I was about to make an appropriate reply when a disturbance in the room caught my eye. Even among family, my role as hostess demanded that I investigate any unusual incident immediately. I rose with an apologetic smile and walked over to where one of the footmen was hovering by the door.
“What is it, Robert?”
“There’s a . . . gentleman . . . arrived asking for you, m’lady.” Robert looked perplexed.
“At this time of night?” It was almost eleven o’clock. “Who is it?”
“Fortier,” said a voice from behind Robert. The man himself hove into view. His usually tidy appearance was marred by the stains of travel, including, I rather thought, an unsuccessful attempt to remove a streak of vomit from his sleeve. I deduced he had just made the Channel crossing—at such a time of year!—and that as one would expect, it had not been easy. He swayed a little.
“Robert, please show Monsieur Fortier into the library and bring him”—I surveyed Fortier closely, noting his pallor and the shadows under his eyes—“a large brandy. A very large brandy. Sir Justin’s best brandy, you understand. And a sandwich or two. And coffee. Make sure he’s warm and comfortable and take his coat to Mrs. Eason for cleaning.” I nodded at Fortier. “I’ll give you a few minutes to find your feet, and then I’ll join you.”
I watched my visitor retreat and then turned to my brother-in-law, who had drawn close, an alert look in his brown eyes. Behind him were the faces of my family, expressing various degrees of surprise or annoyance depending on their personalities.
“You’ll come with me, won’t you, Ned? I believe Monsieur Fortier would benefit from your presence.”
When Ned and I entered the library a few minutes later, we found Fortier sitting as close as he could to the fire, his feet only inches from the crackling embers. Without the stained traveling coat, he looked a little more like himself, and he had taken two bites from the beef sandwich Mrs. Foster had sent up. The warm fragrance of good brandy rose from the goblet he held
in his hand.
Ned had also furnished himself with brandy and carried a small glass of cordial for me. Fortier rose as we entered and hurried to pull forward a chair so Ned could sit between us. We made a cozy group, the three of us, huddled close to the flickering flames.
Ned wasn’t mayor of Littleberry for nothing. Instead of pressing Fortier with questions, he sat silent, nursing his brandy and waiting for the younger man to recover his equilibrium. I was silent too, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. I watched the color return to Fortier’s cheeks under his faint tan and the tremor in his hands become still.
At last Fortier spoke. “The first thing I absolutely must do is to assure the two of you of my complete and utter innocence with respect to Susan Hatherall. I haven’t led a blameless life, but seducing farm girls is not one of my sins.”
“She’s retracted her accusation already, thanks to Lady Helena.” The laughter lines gathered at the corners of Ned’s eyes, but he didn’t smile.
“She has? Dieu merci.” The relief in Fortier’s voice spoke volumes.
“Your sister wrote to you. I expect you missed the letter,” I said.
“Has she named her seducer?” Fortier asked.
“No. She may never do so, and I’m not going to try to make her. If the father of the child were an honest man, he’d have come forward by now, wouldn’t he? And you should know she’s living here now. I’ve employed her as a sort of assistant.”
Fortier’s eyes widened, but all he said was, “And what does her father think of that?”
I shrugged. “He’s telling people she’s not in her right mind. I suppose that makes it easier for him to bear the disgrace, but it’s not true. She’s not the most agreeable company I could have, but she does her work well. She remembers quite a lot of what my mother taught her. I just wish her health were better. This child seems to be draining the energy from her.”
“I hesitate to ask, but would you like my medical opinion?”
“She may not wish to see you,” I said. “She seems to hate the child. I think she’d welcome losing it.”
Ned shook his head. “As far as I can see, Helena, you’re the only person in Littleberry who’d welcome the birth of this baby. And you’d be wrong. Children born on the wrong side of the blanket have a terrible start, and life for the lower classes is hard enough as it is.”
“Then I’ll do what I can to make it easier.” I swallowed the last sip of my cordial and put the glass down with a bang. “Whether Susan wants me to or not.”
Truth be told, I was looking forward to the birth of a baby at Whitcombe, for reasons I did not care to explore. This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself prickly and defensive on the subject of Susan’s baby.
“You could come by tomorrow to see my new workroom,” I said to Fortier, anxious to change the subject. “Susan will be there. It’s perfectly respectable.”
I delivered that last sentence rather loudly, and not to Fortier but to Ned, who had made a noise in his throat.
“I will do my best to safeguard both our reputations,” Fortier said gravely, his eyes on my brother-in-law. “I can’t afford any more gossip attaching to my own name. And you, Lady Helena, should not suffer for being kind.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” I said cheerfully to both men. “I’m a Scott-De Quincy. As my sister the Marchioness of Hastings is fond of saying, our sort make our own rules.”
I had the satisfaction of making Ned swallow his brandy the wrong way, but the spluttering that ensued was mingled with laughter.
“It’s hopeless,” he said to Fortier. “They’re all the same—but that’s why I married one. And it’s about time I took my lady wife home.”
Fortier glanced at the grandfather clock that had been sonorously counting off the seconds of our conversation and swallowed the last of his brandy. He looked straight at me, his eyes lit gold by the candlelight.
“Forgive me, Lady Helena, for intruding on your dinner party. My anxiety to clear my name is my only excuse. I’ve only just realized how very late it is and how very wrong of me it is to arrive at such an hour.”
“You’re forgiven.” I tried to look stern. “It’s a good thing my family’s here though. Kindly refrain from visiting me in the evening in future.”
He broke into a short laugh, in which he was joined by Ned—who seemed to like him now.
“You’re quite right,” Fortier said after clearing his throat. “To be honest, after the journey I’ve had I’d lost all sense of time. I seem to have been traveling in the dark for days.”
“Bad crossing?” Ned inquired mildly.
“The worst. Dante got it wrong—the deepest circle of Hades is surely located in the English Channel.” He shuddered. “The boat from the ship to the shore was the worst part. I thought they’d never get it in. Most of the passengers stayed on the ship to wait the night out, but I was foolish enough to accept the captain’s invitation to try for the shore.” He smiled suddenly, which did something odd to my knees. “I’m glad I did now.”
Ned stood up. “Well, then, Fortier, may I offer you a place in our carriage? It’s just me and Lady Freestone—my children are staying at Whitcombe for the night. After all, we’re near neighbors.”
“That would be delightful.” Fortier also stood, looking much better than he had upon his arrival, even though he’d barely touched his food. “I hope my sister will forgive my homecoming at such a late and unexpected hour. Lady Helena, I will come to see your workroom by appointment, in my professional capacity, in the most proper and respectable manner possible. Would late in the morning be inconvenient?”
“I am generally at home at half past eleven,” I said gravely.
I remained in the library for a few moments after the two men had left together, Ned taking Fortier by the elbow as if to make absolutely sure he could not return to me. Yes, he liked Fortier, I decided, but like the rest of my family he was wary of him. And despite my resolution to trust him, I knew Ned was right. Fortier was plainly not going to tell us what he’d been doing in France.
15
A gruesome discovery
I’d been right to worry about Susan. When Fortier called at precisely eleven thirty the next day, I was pacing the floor of my workroom in the throes of acute anxiety.
“She’s delirious.” I grabbed Fortier by the arm, heedless of his polite greeting. “She had a fever this morning, and Mrs. Eason told her to stay in bed. Now she’s absolutely burning up. The whole household’s in a panic in case it’s something contagious.” I gestured at the large bag Fortier was carrying. “Are those your medical supplies?”
“Yes. Have you given her anything?”
He was following me closely as I led the way through the house, and I turned around so suddenly that he almost fell into me.
“No.” My pent-up frustration with myself burst forth. “I feel like a fraud. All I’ve managed to do so far is to produce a reasonable throat linctus from one of my mother’s recipes. And quite a good ginger brew for the countess—you may as well know she’s the friend I spoke of since her delicate condition is starting to become apparent. Perhaps my family’s right and I’m just a dilettante. I don’t even know where to begin to help Susan.”
“You’ve only just started your studies.” Now he was leading the way, as we’d plainly arrived at the staircase leading to the servants’ bedrooms. “If you wish to learn, simply observe. This is a good opportunity.”
“Mrs. Eason has been sponging her down to reduce the fever. She’s the only one who’ll go near her.”
“I can give you the name of a woman who’ll take care of her.”
Fortier knocked on the door I indicated, and we both entered in response to Mrs. Eason’s summons. We found my housekeeper seated by Susan’s bedside, a bowl on another chair by her side. The plain but not unpleasant room was heated by a fire burning in the small grate. Mrs. Eason had removed the crocheted bedcover, and Susan was covered only by a sheet and a thin blanket
.
“I’m glad to see you, sir,” my housekeeper said. “I fear for both mother and child.”
Fortier nodded and bent to his patient. He spent a few minutes examining her and asked questions, which Mrs. Eason answered readily. He folded down the covers and produced a stethoscope with a flexible rubber tube.
“I am certain the child still lives,” he said after about two minutes. He gently pulled down one of Susan’s lower eyelids, then the other. “I don’t think this is a contagious fever. Do you see the yellowish tinge to her skin? And here, on the inside of the eyelid and the white of her eye. I think it’s her liver. I wonder . . .” He turned Susan’s hands over to study the palms and pulled up the cover from the end of her bed to look at the soles of her feet.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Signs of the pox.” He looked directly at me. “The blackguard who got her with child may have infected her. I will have the nurse look more closely for certain indications, but it can be very hard to tell if the early symptoms are missed.” He felt around Susan’s throat, his eyes thoughtful.
“Lady Helena,” he said at last, “if you would like to help her, there are some tisanes you can brew to clarify the liver. They will likely be every bit as effective as anything you can get from the apothecary, although you may need to send to him for some of the ingredients. Others you may have—coriander seed, lemon leaf, lemons, ginger, licorice root.”
“We have those, sir.” Mrs. Eason smiled. “If her ladyship doesn’t already keep them in her workroom.”