Lady Helena Investigates

by Jane Steen

  He walked his horse toward us, talking to the animal and swapping jocular remarks with a knife-grinder heading in the opposite direction. Then he saw me with my head sticking out of the carriage window, and recognition lit up his face. More than recognition—joy, if I was any judge. But in a moment his face had assumed the friendly expression of a gentleman greeting an acquaintance.

  “Good morning, Lady Helena.” He lifted his hat, then let go of the horse’s bridle for a moment and put down his bag so he could shrug himself into the overcoat he carried over one arm. “I’m afraid Lucifer has lived up to his name and decided to make life difficult for us all. I apologize on his behalf. And on mine—I should have taken the extra time to lead him round to the back.”

  It was the first time I’d heard the horse’s name. I grinned as it took advantage of its master’s inattention to turn its huge nose in my direction, snuffling at me as it recognized my scent. Behind me, Scotty began barking furiously, and I heard Guttridge shush him.

  “Lucifer, is it? Beelzebub might be better.” I patted the horse’s bony face, laying my cheek briefly against its velvet-soft nose.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Fortier pushed at Lucifer’s neck to stop him from nibbling at my hat. “He’s quite the angel most of the time, and I need a strong beast with all the riding I do. How was London?”

  “More interesting than I thought it would be. I’ve had so many things sent back for my workroom. You wait till you see them.”

  A small cough sounded behind me, and I remembered all the trouble my so-called eccentricities had gotten me into. “Of course, you’re only likely to come to Whitcombe if Susan’s ill again. And I understand she’s tolerable.”

  I thought Fortier’s face fell a fraction at the clear implication he was not to approach me again other than in a professional capacity, but he nodded. “It’s unlikely she’ll need me,” he said. “But if she does, I am at your entire disposal.”

  “Thank you.” I looked down at the plain black wool of my traveling coat and felt a sudden surge of despair at the gulf that lay between me and Fortier. In other circumstances, we could have been friends. But I had my family to consider.

  While we’d been talking, the drays had managed to extricate themselves from the odd angles they’d assumed when trying to get around Lucifer, and the carriage driver was looking at me in anticipation. Fortier saw my quick glance upward.

  “I’d better let you get home before you and Miss Guttridge freeze.” He tugged gently on Lucifer’s bridle to urge the horse farther away from the carriage and tipped his hat to me politely.

  “I wish you good day, Lady Helena. My compliments to your family.”

  There was nothing I could do but nod and withdraw my head into the carriage. As I pushed the window up, I watched Fortier mount his horse with the considerable display of athleticism necessary in the case of such a large animal and thought incongruously of the aristocrat with the sunken eye. If I were to marry again, it would have to be a man accustomed to the vigorous life of the countryside.

  “You’re doing well to keep the French gentleman at arm’s length, my lady, if you don’t mind me saying so.” Guttridge’s tone was approving. “It’s best that way.”

  I bit back a retort that I did mind her saying so. Guttridge had my best interests at heart. They all did. There was no reason I should see Fortier now unless our paths crossed accidentally. If he were right and Farmer Hatherall had played some part in Justin’s death, well—Hatherall was dead. All I could do now was grieve, and as O said, I needed time to do that. In the quiet and seclusion of a widow’s first mourning, I would find myself—and yet there was something about the last half hour that had taken the sparkling edge off the bright winter’s day and cast a shadow over my homecoming.

  22

  A sense of purpose

  I walked up the front steps at Whitcombe House with the usual feeling of gratitude that I could breathe the fresh air of the coast again, even if it was too cold to smell the sea. London air was stale and flat, that of Littleberry too often malodorous; but as always before entering Whitcombe, I turned around and breathed deep, relishing the wide prospect below me, the shadowed hills beyond the valley, the blue-tinged presence of the Channel to the south.

  “It seems very large and very empty,” I said to Guttridge after we’d greeted the other servants, who had assembled to welcome us. My voice echoed in the Great Hall, where the winter sunlight struck gleams from white-and-gray marble and a roaring fire did its best to counteract the day’s chill.

  “It’s a grand place.” Guttridge looked around with an air of satisfaction. “Scott House is well enough, my lady, and it was a fine thing to visit my old auntie in Bromley, but I’m glad to be back home with my friends.”

  “And your young man?” I asked slyly.

  “Him too.” Guttridge grinned.

  “Let’s go upstairs and shake off the dust.” I headed toward the wide staircase, sparing a second’s glance for the first baronet, Justin’s grandfather, who surveyed us with his usual sideways glance from over the fireplace, his hand forever thrust into the breast of his richly brocaded coat. Scotty’s claws clicked as he ran upstairs, barking a welcome to the house. Yes, it was good to be home.

  “I’m eager to see my workroom,” I said as we walked up the dark mahogany stairs. “To see how Susan’s progressed with the materials I sent home.”

  Stepping through the door into Whitcombe had fired me with a sense of excitement and purpose I’d not had since the Hatheralls had accused Justin of fathering Susan’s child. Now perhaps I could settle down in peace to learn the herbalist’s art. And in just a few weeks, there would be a baby in the house. Would it really be so hard to persuade Susan to accept my charity and keep the child at Whitcombe? The house would not seem so big and empty with a child in it. And it seemed fitting somehow; had my mother not cared for Susan when she herself was a motherless child?

  It didn’t take long, with Guttridge’s help, to remove my traveling clothes and don one of my plainest dresses, over which I could easily slip an apron. Guttridge stayed upstairs, as the trunks would soon be brought up. After a brief conference with Mrs. Eason about meals and maids—we had lost a kitchen maid to homesickness—I ran lightly down the staircase and sought out Susan in my workroom.

  She was not a prepossessing sight. The fine, abundant hair that had once shone like moonlight in summer now lay limp and dead-looking against her scalp. Her eyes, dull and resentful, were ringed with dark shadows. Her belly was a taut growth on a body that had become awkwardly angular.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked as she dipped a curtsey, more for something to say than anything else. She was clearly feeling dreadful. “You seem to be doing very well with the room.” That, at least, felt warm and welcoming. A fire of apple wood burned in the grate, and the air bore the scents of spices and alcohols. “Is Mrs. Eason looking after you?”

  “Yes, m’lady, she looks after me fine. She’s always on at me to eat something or the other. And she’s had that Mrs. Kenny—that’s the midwife—to me three times. Says she’s thinking of calling in the French physician, but I don’t want him near me.”

  “One of the other physicians, perhaps? I would understand your not wanting to see Monsieur Fortier.” I couldn’t resist an allusion to the trouble Susan had caused. “You do look a little thin.”

  “It’s the child, m’lady. It’s sucking the life out of me.” She looked downward at where her dress bulged out in a tight curve, an almost malicious hatred on her face. “I daresay I’ll feel better after it’s born.”

  “I suppose you will. Although I wish you’d think of your baby as a little boy or girl rather than an ‘it.’” I tried to look her in the eyes, but she turned her head to one side. “Do you still suffer from fever?”

  I thought of laying a hand on her forehead, which looked red and dry, but she took a step backward as if she anticipated the impulse and wished to forestall it. And in fact, I didn’t want to touch
her. There was something about her that made my thumbs prickle and sent a chill down my spine.

  “I get fevers, m’lady. Not too bad though, not like that one time. I don’t bother Mrs. Eason too much about them.” She gestured at two bundles of dried leaves that hung from the ceiling. “Mrs. Kenny brought me these raspberry leaves, and I make a tea. Seems to help, and I like it.”

  For a moment, she sounded like the bold Susan of her younger days, and I smiled despite my misgivings. She did at least seem to be interested in the herbs. I could see several of the jars now had ingredients in them and were labeled in large, round, neat handwriting. If Susan found the work congenial, I had more chance of convincing her to stay at Whitcombe with her baby. Even the worst theory of how the child came to be conceived wouldn’t make him—or her—any less of a person deserving of love and care.

  “I thank you, m’lady, for getting them to bring my bits of things from the farm.” Susan pushed a hand under her cap to scratch at her scalp. “I’m never going in there again.”

  “You didn’t ask for much, from what Mrs. Eason tells me. You didn’t want your father’s books? I heard you only asked for his Bible and a book of poems.”

  “His learning didn’t do him much good.” Susan sniffed. “The Bible and Mr. Wordsworth are all I need to remember how we were once happy.”

  “I expect the new tenant’s in now.” I tried to sound cheerful. “Come, Susan, show me all you’ve done while I’ve been away. I have a few more things in my trunk—we can look at those together once Guttridge has unpacked.”

  Susan did seem a little brighter once we began discussing impartial topics such as the difficulties of powdering licorice and the properties of the cinchona bark I’d found, and the next two or three hours passed pleasantly. From time to time, she would grunt or touch her side as if the baby were moving, and I had to discipline myself not to stare at her round belly. It was wrong of me to covet her child, and I knew it. He was not mine; he was certainly not Justin’s; and it would be better for all concerned if he moved to Canada with Maggie and her husband.

  And yet . . . more than any of Michael and Julia’s children, whom I had loved to hold as babies, this possible future member of my household exercised a hold on me that I couldn’t deny.

  23

  Shadows of past and present

  I saw much of Julia over the following five days while I was making up for lost time with Mama. This gave me ample opportunity to scrutinize my feelings about babies in general. Julia was almost six months along by this point and glowing with vitality. The contrast with Susan was stark, and my concerns about the younger woman’s health grew.

  “I’ve tried one or two very simple remedies that Mama specifically said were good for women in a delicate condition,” I told Julia as we sat in the window of Mama’s sitting room, watching a turbulent sky through windowpanes smeared with salt-laden rain. Where, on a clear day, we could have seen the sea, there was only a bank of mist on the horizon.

  “Do they help?” Julia stretched as lazily as she could within the limitations of her close-fitting bodice. Behind us, Mama uttered a stream of almost unintelligible words. She was becoming increasingly agitated; I’d arrived to find her accusing Belming of ripping the dress she was wearing—which was quite intact—to shreds. Worse, she’d fallen into the habit of removing her clothing at odd times. She’d exposed her flesh to me that day in so startling a manner that I wasn’t surprised Michael now refused to visit her.

  “The remedies might help if Susan would take them. But she tries them once and then goes back to her raspberry leaf tea. I’ve also made a list of some calming remedies I might try on Mama.”

  “The oil of lavender was a good idea.” Julia sniffed the air appreciatively. “Although poor Belming’s hands must smell of lavender from morning till night.”

  “I don’t mind, m’lady.” Belming spoke quietly from the corner where she’d been silently engaged in some darning. “Her ladyship seems to like the feel of having it rubbed into her neck and shoulders, and we’re sleeping a little better. Though we do wander something terrible some nights.”

  “We’re going to have to get a night nurse,” Julia said to me in an undertone. “Look at Belming—she’s got such dark shadows under her eyes. Supposing she gave notice? I can’t imagine what I’d do.”

  I nodded. “I’ll pay for an extra nurse. And before you tell me that Michael won’t accept my help, he jolly well will. She’s my mother too.”

  Julia grinned. “I agree, although we’re not as badly off as Michael sometimes makes out. He’s doing a good job of settling the late earl’s debts, and giving him free rein with Justin’s—your—land and flocks is bound to help us. James is perfectly happy with old Mr. Munns teaching him his reading, writing, and arithmetic, and Michael agrees with me that he’s too sensitive for Eton just yet, future earl or no. So we’ll save on fees.”

  “Thank heaven for Michael’s abhorrence of Eton,” I said. “I can’t say I much like the practice of sending small boys off to school either.”

  There was a disturbance in the room as tea arrived. Julia and I moved to the settee to sit with Mama. As soon as the maid set the sugar bowl down, Mama grabbed it and deposited about twelve lumps into one of the cups.

  “I expect you’d like some tea, Mama.” I removed all but two of the sugar lumps from the cup, half filled it with tea, and put in plenty of milk.

  “I don’t care what you think.” Mama glared at me. “Your opinion is of no consequence.”

  “It never is. That’s the worst of being the youngest girl.” I stirred the tea until I was sure it was sufficiently cool, then handed Mama the cup without a saucer. Mama held the cup balanced oddly on her palm—watching her drink tea had become a worrying process, but in fact she never spilled it.

  “Annabelle Alice is quite desperate for this child to be a girl.” Julia handed Mama a tiny cucumber sandwich without a plate—that too was a lesson learned. “She says she’s trying to be a good girl so God will answer her prayers on this particular subject. I’ll admit, even though I’m sure it’s a boy, I’m on her side—I love the idea of another little girl running around the place. Imagine the mischief two Annabelle Alices would get into.”

  “She never stops talking,” Mama said, putting down her cup on the very edge of the table. “Thinking she can bring me round. Worming her way into my confidence. She’s a nasty, dirty beast.”

  “I presume you’re not talking about Annabelle Alice, Mama-in-Law. Would you like another sandwich?” Julia leaned forward with a dainty morsel poised between her fingers.

  “I’m not eating that.” Mama batted Julia’s hand away so that the sandwich flew apart. Naturally, both pieces of bread landed butter side down on the rug. “It’s poison.”

  “Of course it’s not, Mama.” I peeled the pieces of bread off the carpet and rubbed ineffectually at the greasy spots with my napkin. “It’s a cucumber sandwich. You just ate one.”

  “We think a lot of things are poison lately.” Belming nodded her thanks for the cup of tea and plate of sandwiches I’d brought her. “Especially things to drink. Some days it’s hard to get a drop of liquid into her ladyship at all.” She shook her head. “It’s not good for a body to go thirsty. Barley water, now that her ladyship will drink, if she takes anything at all. But no cocoa, and it used to be such a favorite.”

  “I shouldn’t imagine cocoa’s good to drink if you’re thirsty.” I spoke absentmindedly, my mind on the notion of supplying some tisanes Mama might like. Would that be a pointless gesture? “Mama and Papa drank cocoa every day together before retiring to bed, but they would also have a glass of water.”

  “Your Mama and Papa were so close.” Julia smiled. “Such an adoring couple.”

  “Murderous bastard.”

  I felt my eyebrows shoot up and saw the same expression on Julia’s face.

  “Good heavens, m’lady.” Belming’s voice was controlled and deferential, but there was definitely a hi
nt of emotion. “We can’t talk like that. Such language doesn’t befit a dowager countess.”

  “Does Mama often say things like that?” I inquired.

  “At times.” Belming slipped the darning mushroom from the stocking she’d just finished and stowed it in her workbasket. She folded the mended stocking carefully and placed it on top of the pile. “Sometimes we think there’s a man with a knife behind the curtain.”

  “Poor Mama.” I went to kiss the pure white hair that met the freckled skin of my mother’s brow, breathing in the scent of lavender. I remembered the sensation of Mama’s arms, strong and capable back then, encircling my shoulders. “You’re quite safe here, you know. We all love you.”

  “I’m afraid.” For a moment I saw my mother—my real mother, not this poor, confused woman—look out of Mama’s eyes.

  “Afraid of what?”

  The expression in my mother’s eyes shifted again, becoming childishly cunning. “I shan’t tell you. You have to ask the gardener.”

  “Would you like to come and see the children?” Julia pushed herself out of her chair, not without a little difficulty.

  “I would. Do try to be calm, dear Mama. I’ll visit you again tomorrow.”

  I suspected Julia’s request was an excuse to give us a change of scene. I was proved right when, instead of heading for the nursery floor, Julia led me to her boudoir. This small, pretty room had once been Mama’s and then of course Cecilia’s, but Julia had sensibly asserted a new bride’s privileges and transformed its faded Regency tints into a medley of gold tones that suited her warm coloring.