Lady Helena Investigates

by Jane Steen

“He shot the poor dear horse.” Alice raised her hands as if in horror at the memory. “It was the talk of the Season.”

  “And then he took Mrs. B-C to Chicago, my dear, the dreadful place in America where she came from, and left her there with her family. With such threats, she didn’t set foot in England for ten years, by which time one hopes she had learned a little discretion.”

  The guardsman would seem to indicate Annette’s hope was in vain. But that cynical thought flew straight out of my head, ousted by an overwhelming sense of shame. My Papa, involved in such a scandal—

  “It was the fact everyone knew that Mama hated so much.” Alice bit her dry lips. “You know what Littleberry’s like. All the good she’d done, and now people were talking about her as if she’d done something wrong.”

  “We went to great lengths to ensure you children didn’t hear about it,” said Annette. “You were such an inquisitive little thing back then.”

  The room was tilting slightly around me, and I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out with a great sigh and tucked my hands—which were strangely cold—under my arms.

  “You all knew,” I whispered. “You, Gerry, Odelia, Blanche . . . And nobody has ever told me. Even Gerry, when she admitted Papa hadn’t always been faithful—” I stopped short. “Gerry lied to me.”

  “Don’t blame Gerry,” Alice said quickly. “She’s never let a word about the whole Batch-Crocker business pass her lips. Never. She doesn’t believe any good can come of bringing up the past.”

  “And Blanche—well, you know Blanche.” The ghost of a smile flitted across Annette’s face, then was gone. “Who does she think of except herself? And Deddy, I suppose. She let it be known that anyone who even hinted at the affair in her presence would lose the regard of the Marquess and Marchioness of Hastings forever.”

  Alice laid a hand on my arm. “And O was clever enough to use the scandal to her own advantage. Papa and Mama would never have let her move permanently to London at the tender age of nineteen in the normal way of things. But with the household in disarray . . .” She shrugged. “And I believe she pointed out to Mama that if she lived at Scott House, Papa could not . . . well . . . have private guests.”

  “Oh, good grief.” I shook Alice’s arm off and put my hands over my face, only to pull them down as another thought struck me. “Do people still talk about it?”

  “Knowing Littleberry—”

  “—I’d say yes—” said my sisters simultaneously.

  “—but it was a long time ago, and nobody will mention it to our faces.”

  “And all families have their secrets,” finished Alice. “And with poor Mama so ill . . .”

  “How did she cope back then?” I asked. “How did she live it all down?”

  “She held her head high and looked people in the face, as a lady does.” This time Annette did smile, a strangely triumphant expression. “She said at the time it was the final straw, but it wasn’t, of course.”

  “I suppose she forgave him eventually,” said Alice. “For the sake of you little ones as much as anything else. Besides, what could she do? Our sort of people don’t divorce.”

  I closed my eyes, shaking my head. “Of course they don’t.”

  “But I think you’re wrong about there being more notebooks, Baby.” I did not see which twin had spoken.

  “Why?” I opened my eyes and looked hard at my sisters, attempting to read their identical expressions.

  Another moment when my sisters seemed to be communicating by thought alone, and then they both turned to me as if they had reached a decision.

  “There was another one,” Alice said. “But Papa read it, you see. There was something we heard—it was wrong of us to eavesdrop, of course.”

  “He put it on the fire, you see—”

  “—and forbade Mama from writing any more journals.”

  “And she accepted that?” My eyes must have been as round as the twins’. “After all that had happened, Mama meekly agreed to remain silent?” I knew I could not have held my tongue had it been me.

  “Noooo.” Alice breathed out the word, an odd expression of remembered pain on her heart-shaped face. “She made a scene. It was the one and only time I’ve known her to lose her dignity—except for that horrible day with Susan Hatherall.”

  “It was as if the loss of the notebook were more important than what had happened,” Annette said. “She sounded so . . .” She looked helplessly at her twin.

  “Insane.” Alice supplied the word, and once more my sisters’ hands entwined. “She wasn’t herself at all. But then Papa began talking to her, very softly.” She shuddered violently.

  “What did he say, Ally?” I could hear the dread in my voice.

  “We had no right to hear.” Annette looked evasive, but I held up my hand to forestall any attempt at dissembling.

  “You did hear.”

  “We heard some of it.” Alice looked suddenly very old. “He said he’d take you away if she made a scandal. You and Michael. That he’d have her declared insane and—and locked up.”

  “And eventually we stopped trying to hear because it was so awful, the way Mama was crying. Quietly—whimpering.”

  “Dear God.” I felt sick and cold. Of course, those were the powers and privileges of a husband, and I didn’t suppose Papa was the first to use such a threat—but that meant he hadn’t been altogether the kind man I’d thought him, and that was hard to encompass.

  “There were no more notebooks after that,” said Annette. “Mama wasn’t right for a long time after that day. She kept to her garden a great deal, sketching and painting. She neglected her workroom and didn’t even visit the poor people of Littleberry.”

  “That’s when Netty and I began to offer what help we could.” Alice smiled fondly at her twin. “We gave out that Mama was ailing, which was true, really.”

  “We didn’t want people to talk even more.”

  “And the house was so horrid for such a long while. Such an atmosphere. It was better to be out of it.”

  “But in the end Mama seemed to cheer up—”

  “—and Papa kept such a brave face,” said Alice.

  “You sound as if you had more sympathy for him than for Mama,” I pointed out. “How could you?”

  The look that passed between the twins confirmed my suspicions, and I closed my eyes again. “Because a lady isn’t supposed to make a fuss.”

  I was still for a few moments, thinking. In the world in which I was raised, Papa would automatically have the right of it. But my whole being revolted against the years of betrayal and reconciliation and then enforced silence. Was it the stifling of her voice that had driven Mama out of her mind?

  “Well.” I rose to my feet, aware that my legs weren’t quite steady. “Now at least I know there were no more notebooks. And why.” And it would take me days or even weeks to recover from what I’d learned in the last half hour.

  Alice smiled up at me as if a thought had struck her. “But just think, Baby. There were such lovely pictures. Don’t you remember them? If Mama had still been scribbling in her notebooks, she wouldn’t have done all that painting.”

  Annette put her head on one side. “Wouldn’t you like them for your workroom?”

  I considered her question, looking down at the two women I hardly felt I knew. They were still pretty, with their large eyes and heart-shaped faces, if you overlooked a certain weakness of chin. They were looking up at me with an encouraging expression, as though willing me to forget the unpleasant revelations of the last hour and turn to brighter subjects. Perhaps that’s exactly what I should do, for their sakes. I forced a smile to my lips.

  “If they’re still in good condition, I suppose I’ve more room for them at Whitcombe than you have here. Are they in a trunk somewhere?”

  “Oh no,” said Alice. “They’re in Papa’s map chest, quite nicely preserved. In fact, would you like the map chest itself? You always enjoyed playing with it when you were a little gir
l.”

  “Michael dislikes it,” added Annette. “He says all the little compartments under the glass lid are crooked, and he doesn’t like the way the glass reflects. You know how fussy he is.”

  I certainly did, and the twins were right, I’d always liked the map chest. Papa had bought it from a sale in Folkestone, where a ship was being broken up. As a child, I’d loved to put conkers, fir cones, and other small treasures into the display compartments and hide objects in the “secret” compartment, which was not at all secret since everyone knew about it. My smile became less forced.

  “I’ll take it, and gladly, if Michael and Julia agree,” I said. “It’ll look well in my workroom.”

  29

  Ab irato

  The map chest was duly brought to Whitcombe and set up in my workroom, where, to my surprise, Michael visited me only two days later. My mood by that time was better than I’d expected. There were moments when I even convinced myself that Papa’s words had only been words, after all, and that we all said things to each other we didn’t mean. Truth be told, I simply couldn’t square the threat he had made with the warm, kind man I had known for the first nineteen years of my life.

  “I wish you’d brew some potion for Julia’s heartburn,” Michael said without greeting me. He was followed by the inevitable Brandrick, who, to give him his due, didn’t look entirely comfortable about Michael’s reference to his countess’s indisposition.

  “Certainly. Mama’s journals appear to contain some fine remedies. Julia should have asked me sooner.” Heedless of the look on Michael’s face, I stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. Since his apology three months before, I had felt more kindly toward my infuriating little brother, who was definitely making an effort to be less critical of my every word and action. And besides, his child was due in two or three weeks, and the poor man was beginning to fuss over Julia like a hen with one chick. He did so in his own way, of course, without visible affection, but I—and his servants—understood him well enough to interpret correctly his strictures about exactly how his wife’s comforts must be managed.

  Michael twitched and hunched his shoulders to ward off any more demonstrations of sisterly feeling. As a further evasive maneuver, he crossed to the map chest. He ran a finger across the gleaming wood of its hinged top and squinted at the glass as if looking for signs of bad housekeeping. Since my servants were as well trained as any in the county, he would find none.

  “I suppose I should be glad you like this ugly thing,” he said. “I should have given it to you years ago.”

  “I’m surprised Mama didn’t have it placed in her workroom after Papa died,” I said. “After all, she clearly used it more than he did. I suppose he insisted on it staying in the library out of sheer perverseness.”

  As I pronounced the words, I realized a note of criticism had crept into my thoughts about my father. That would pass, I supposed, because of course I had loved him dearly. A child could not stop loving its parents, not even when they turned out to have feet of clay.

  “He liked the look of it,” Michael said bluntly. “Are you coming to Hyrst with your remedy today or tomorrow? Julia can hardly eat.”

  “I saw Julia yesterday evening, Michael, and she’s the picture of health. I’ll take my time to find a good remedy. Now—”

  I stopped, remembering Brandrick, who was lurking in a corner of my workroom watching Guttridge put labels on jars.

  “Brandrick,” I called, “Would you like to adjourn to the kitchen with Guttridge? It’s nearly time for the servants’ luncheon. You’ll be a few minutes early, but nobody will mind.”

  I watched in satisfaction as Brandrick, with no more than a murmured, “Certainly, m’lady,” followed Guttridge out of the room. My lady’s maid twitched her eyebrows at me as she passed, while Michael regarded me with a cold eye.

  “Brandrick is not a servant. I have told you that before.”

  “He’s not one of us either. Guttridge will make him comfortable,” I said airily.

  “Your prejudice against my steward—our steward—is entirely illogical.” But Michael clearly dismissed Brandrick from his mind as he turned toward the large marble-topped table.

  “Are these Mama’s paintings?”

  “They are, and I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to ask you about them.” I gestured toward the seven large paintings laid out on the table, the largest and most beautiful of all the treasures contained within Papa’s map chest. I had spent the last two days in open-mouthed admiration at Mama’s work, which I didn’t remember as having been so beautifully executed. I realized she had, in fact, found her voice again after her writing had been stifled, and I was glad of it.

  “These are the ones I’m thinking of framing for this room.” I fingered the one nearest to me, a magnificent study of a purple foxglove complete with separate illustrations of the leaves, seeds, and seedlings. “They’re all roughly the same size, you see, and could be nicely spaced across the back wall. Only this one has a title—do you think I should ask the framer to cut it off?”

  “But that would make its proportions different to the others.” Michael looked horrified.

  “The title makes it different. I prefer it without.” I brushed my fingertips over the paint, feeling the way the paper had stiffened as the watercolors dried. “But maybe you’re right. I could put it in the middle, make it into a focal point. Mama must have taken more care over this drawing than anything else she ever did—it’s breathtaking. I wanted to know if you’d like it, though, since they really belong to Hyrst.”

  Michael shook his head, picking up one corner of the large watercolor. “No, they don’t. I gave them to you. What does this say?” He squinted at the exquisitely lettered wording, which read, “Sola dosis facit venenum.”

  I grinned, pleased that Michael hadn’t contested my right to the paintings. There were many more of a quite astonishing quality. I would have some of the others framed and offer them to Julia.

  “I’m as in the dark as you are about what these words mean. I know some botanical and medical Latin, but Mama never taught me any more than that. This looks like a phrase rather than a name.”

  “Don’t you have a Latin dictionary?”

  “Justin had one, of course. But I daresay I’ll find someone who can tell me their meaning. Thomas, perhaps, or that tutor of his. Except Thomas has gone to Chichester to meet with some clergyman or the other, and the tutor has left on a walking holiday.” I shrugged. “Plenty of time to find out.”

  Michael put the paper down and traced a long, elegant finger along the finely delineated leaves. “What about this writing?”

  “What writing? There isn’t any.”

  “Yes there is. In the leaves. Mama’s special writing.”

  “What are you talking about?” I stared at the leaves. “There’s nothing there. And you can’t read, so how do you know it’s writing?”

  “I can read patterns.” Michael sounded sulky. “And I know well enough what writing looks like. Heaven knows I’ve spent enough hours staring at it, trying to will it to make sense. Do you have a pencil and paper?”

  “What do you mean about Mama’s special writing?” I asked as I went to my desk to rummage in the drawer.

  “Mama showed me once, when I was little, how she hid our names in her flower pictures. She said it made them more special. She thought it was very odd that I could see them, even though I couldn’t read. But they’re easier to see than the way writing usually looks. The letters don’t move around.”

  “Letters move around?” I looked curiously at my brother.

  “They do for me. They wiggle and slip away when I try to look at them. But this writing is in a picture, so the picture holds it steady for me.”

  I peered over Michael’s shoulder.

  “All I can see are beautifully painted leaves and flowers.”

  I handed him the pencil and paper, rather fascinated at the notion of seeing Michael write something. I knew he could produce a cl
umsy but serviceable “Broadmere” in cursive for the purpose of signing documents. I also knew that the process embarrassed him and he had Brandrick sign for him wherever possible.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen the watercolor on my dressing room wall.” Michael paused, pencil in hand. “Mama painted it for me when I returned from Somerset. It’s an apple and a pear. The apple has ‘Michael’ in it, and the pear has ‘Broadmere.’ That’s how I learned.”

  “You can write ‘Michael’?”

  “In cursive.”

  Was that the faintest smirk of satisfaction on my brother’s face?

  Michael poised himself to write, staring hard at the foxglove picture as he put pencil to paper. He held the pencil very oddly in his left hand. His forefinger and middle finger rested on the pencil, while his thumb stuck up and outward as though it wished to have nothing to do with the process. But he was definitely producing letters of the alphabet, albeit slowly and painfully.

  “Do the other pictures have writing in them?” I asked.

  “No.” Michael carefully joined up an O.

  “You haven’t even looked.”

  “Of course I have. I don’t have to stare at things to know they’re there. I can see everything at once. Besides, this is the only picture where the leaves are big enough to make it work.” Michael left a space, then wrote L.

  “There are separate words?”

  “If words are separate, and I suppose they are. I don’t see spaces very well when I look at writing. I used to argue with my tutor that people don’t leave spaces when they speak. There are four leaves with special writing in them, so I’m making a space here as there are spaces between the leaves.”

  “Oh.” And in fact, when I looked again I could see Michael was spacing out the words into the same positions as the leaves.

  “There.” Michael straightened up and put down the pencil. He had written:

  * * *

  AB

  * * *

  IRATO