Behind the Shattered Glass: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries)

by Tasha Alexander

  I loved doing my work there, surrounded by books, and had installed a desk in front of a window. The Spanish room, however, I took as my private retreat. I stocked the shelves with favorite books, only ones I would happily read over and over, and decorated the room with my most precious antiquities. Everywhere I looked I saw something I loved, such as a bust of Apollo done in the manner of Praxiteles, black and red figure Greek vases, and an ivory triptych carved in the Middle Ages. My greatest treasure, a golden apple engraved with the words tê kallistê—“to the fairest”—I kept on a table next to my favorite chair. It was the first Christmas present given to me by Colin. Ordinarily, I reserved my work for the library and pleasure for the Spanish room, but today, with both my mother and Rodney threatening my peace of mind, I sought the consolation of this warm and much-loved chamber instead. I had several letters to write, the first of which was to the housekeeper at Archibald’s parents’ estate. I had finished that and had begun to compose a series of wires to those who had hosted the boys abroad when I heard Davis clearing his throat outside the door. I unlocked it.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Miss Cora Fitzgerald to see you, madam. Shall I bring her here?”

  “Take her to the library. I’ll meet her there.”

  Miss Fitzgerald was even paler than when I’d first met her. Her face was drawn, her eyes dull. “Is it true?” she asked. “Was Archibald promised to someone else? My father tells me it is so.”

  “Dear Miss Fitzgerald.” I hardly knew what to say. “It appears that there had been negotiations with an American family, the Sturdevants, and that he was promised to their daughter, Constance.”

  “You need not protect me, Lady Emily,” she said. “I may not be the daughter of a railroad baron, but I am no fool. I want the truth.”

  “The young lady and her parents certainly believed there was an engagement, but it had not been formally announced. Lady Matilda did not approve of the match, and I believe that is why Lord Montagu was treating it as a delicate situation.”

  “Why didn’t she approve?”

  “She had numerous objections to the lady, not the least of which was her being American.”

  “I see.” The skin around Miss Fitzgerald’s eyes crinkled, and three deep lines appeared on her normally smooth brow.

  “I am so very sorry, Miss Fitzgerald. This must be extremely painful.”

  She did not move a muscle.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked. I heard the door open and, assuming it to be Davis, turned to ask him to bring port. Instead, I saw Rodney. Rodney, however, had no eyes for me.

  “Cora? Little Cora Fitzgerald?” He rushed towards her, pulled her to her feet, and embraced her in a most inappropriate fashion. “What a surprise! I hardly know what to say—I certainly never expected to see you again.”

  Cora stepped away from him, her eyes wide, raised her hand, and slapped him soundly across the face.

  “Not the welcome I would have hoped for from an old friend,” Rodney said, “but I do seem to have a deleterious effect on people’s manners.”

  Downstairs

  vii

  Pru was lingering outside near the stables when Lord Flyte returned from London that afternoon. She had started off looking for Johnny but had paused beneath a window to listen to two of the other grooms talking about Alice. Johnny had been sweet on Alice for a while, although Pru could never understand why, so Pru had done the only thing she could think of. She showed him what sweet really meant, and Johnny had never gone in search of Alice since then. But now the grooms were on about that wretched girl again. And why? She was an ugly thing, with her mousy hair and crooked teeth. It was as if they never noticed how bad she looked. All they cared about was that she made them laugh. As if they couldn’t laugh by themselves. Pru felt her head starting to throb and wasn’t sure she wanted to find Johnny anymore. Then she heard the carriage and saw Lord Flyte, who made her forget all about Johnny and his grooms. She liked the way he looked, tall but not too tall, nice eyes, and a straight nose. He was carrying a slim package and whistling one of those tunes Lily liked to sing. She watched him as he walked around in the direction of the folly near the lake. The Temple of the Muses, Lady Emily called it.

  “I hear you was in London,” she shouted after him. “Is it true?”

  “It is,” he said, pausing.

  “I ain’t never been there, me. Is it nice?”

  “Very.”

  “I know you like to talk to Lily,” she said. “I thought you might like to talk to me as well.”

  He stopped and took a few steps in her direction. “Do you work in the kitchen?”

  “I do. Lowest job in the house, but I was made for better things.”

  “Then I do hope you get them,” he said with a guarded smile.

  “I think I will,” she said. “I understand how things work, you see.”

  Lord Flyte glanced around, wondering where all the grooms had disappeared to. They’d made quick work of putting away the carriage that had picked him up at the train station. He was beginning to regret not having let them drop him at the front of the house. His penchant for long walks was getting him in trouble.

  “I’m Prudence. That’s what the master calls me. The others call me Pru, but I like Prudence better. It suits me, don’t you think?”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prudence.” He smiled at her and tipped his hat but stepped away. “Do enjoy the rest of your day. I am very much looking forward to dinner. Cook is bound to give us another masterpiece.”

  He hadn’t been gone from her sight for more than a minute when Johnny stepped out of the stables. “Don’t think you’ve got a chance there,” he said. “Though he stopped you just in time to keep you from making a fool of yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re about,” Pru said, suddenly self-conscious. “I was here waiting for you.”

  “Well, here I am.” He grinned and put an arm around her waist. “How long before you have to be back?”

  8

  After Cora Fitzgerald slapped Rodney, she pushed him away, almost flinging him into a pedestal holding a first-century bust purported to be Marc Antony. I would have been most distressed to see it damaged. “Forgive me,” she said, ignoring both the precariously rocking bust and me. Her entire focus was on Rodney. “Forgive me. You are supposed to be dead.” She smoothed her skirts and crossed to the opposite side of the room, not taking her suspicious eyes off him. There was a strange look on her face: half rapture, half paralysis. “Are you a ghost?”

  “You know I’m not a ghost, Cora.”

  “I take it you two have already been introduced?” I asked.

  “We met in India,” Rodney said. “Years ago when Cora’s father was a missionary. He hosted me for a handful of days while I was in the midst of searching for a ruby that was lost in the fourteenth century. It was a bridal gift to a beautiful princess, who—”

  “The details are not important,” I said. “Why is Miss Fitzgerald laboring under the delusion that you are dead?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is a question I cannot answer.”

  “My father told me you were,” Miss Fitzgerald said. “He said I must stop waiting for you to come back, that he didn’t like to be the messenger of heartbreak, but that he’d had news of your party having been accosted by wild tigers, and that you had all been killed.” She stopped for a moment and then broke out laughing. “I never realized how silly his story was until now. I suppose he didn’t know what else to tell me. I was too young to understand you had not formed a romantic attachment to a twelve-year-old over the course of a long weekend.”

  “You were waiting for me?” Rodney asked. He was walking towards her now, his hands clasped behind his back, a wide grin on his face.

  “I looked for a letter every day and sat by the side of the road at sunset each evening. That was the time you had arrived on our doorstep on the day we met, and I was convinced you would return to me
when the sky was streaked pink and gold.”

  “Oh dear. How could I have been so dreadful?” Rodney was laying on the charm. He was extremely good at it, all bright blue eyes, broad smile, and his easy drawl. I wondered how many ladies, east and west, had fallen for him. Fallen but not stayed, or he wouldn’t be so well practiced. “I’d never seen a prettier little girl in my life,” he continued. “I am sorry to have caused you any heartache, and I do heartily beg your forgiveness.”

  “It is yours. I shall always be grateful to you for awakening my romantic nature, even if you were unaware of how significant an experience it was for me,” Miss Fitzgerald said, her face now bright with adoration. She looked almost like a little girl, and it was difficult to reconcile this image with the lady who had written such passionate and sophisticated letters to Archibald Scolfield. “But why are you at Anglemore Park? This is so unexpected I hardly know what to think.”

  “Rodney is the new Marquess of Montagu,” I said, watching her reaction carefully. She was not, in my estimation, quite so surprised as she ought to have been. She raised her eyebrows slightly, and her eyes danced.

  “How is this possible?” she asked. “No, don’t explain. It is too much to bear. I was engaged to Archibald Scolfield, you see, so my feelings on the subject are rather complicated.”

  “You were to be married?” Rodney asked, sitting on the settee and pulling her down next to him. A little closer than necessary, I thought. “I am terribly sorry that you lost your fiancé in such unfortunate circumstances.”

  “It is even worse than it seems,” she said in a tone that could only be described as conspiratorial. “I thought we had been engaged until my father informed me that Archibald’s affections had been promised elsewhere.”

  “Cad!” Rodney was all sympathy. “You poor, poor girl.”

  “I don’t know what I shall do now. The humiliation stings like nothing else.” Her smile was too sweet. She was all vicar’s daughter, hiding every sign of the sophisticated lover ready to elope on a moment’s notice. “Well, perhaps not so much as when I thought you’d been eaten by tigers.”

  “This is all quite the coincidence,” I said. “Imagine finding each other here, now, at such an opportune time.” Far too convenient, I thought.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Rodney said. “A wonder, truly. Cora, I must apologize for this rogue of a relative of mine. I do not like to hear that someone has toyed with your trusting nature. A girl who believes stories about treasure hunters and tigers ought to have her innocence preserved for as long as possible.”

  I coughed.

  “You are too kind, Mr. Scolfield—I mean, Lord Montagu,” Cora said.

  “You must call me Rodney.”

  She smiled up at him so sweetly my teeth started to ache. I had seen quite enough. “I shall leave the two of you to catch up,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your reminiscing.”

  “Many thanks, Emily,” Rodney said.

  I exited the room at a most unladylike pace, my head spinning. I closed the door behind me and then leaned my ear against it, only for a moment. It was shameful to eavesdrop in my own house, and besides, I couldn’t hear a word through the heavy oak door. I knew Colin had retired to his study and decided to follow him there, but went through the great hall and the Spanish room, not wanting to go back into the library and interrupt the reunited couple.

  Colin was bent over a notebook, so engrossed in his work he did not hear me enter the room. He was writing, his hand moving smoothly over the page without pause or hesitation. He never started to put his thoughts down on paper until he had first let his ideas form fully in his mind (usually while he was pacing) and he had a clear view not only of what he wanted to say, but how he wanted to say it. Despite his fluid motion, his shoulders betrayed the tension he was carrying, tension that would not disperse until he was satisfied he had done everything possible to serve the cause of justice in whatever case was currently consuming him.

  I waited, not wanting to disturb him. Eventually, he put his hands together and stretched his arms out in front of him, and I knew the flow of words had stopped. I crossed to him, stood behind his chair, and wrapped my arms around him. He leaned against me. I was distracted beyond reason but forced myself to pry my arms away and describe for him the scene in the library.

  “It was an absolute load of rubbish,” I said after having finished. “What is the meaning of all this? I am heartily confused.”

  “This might be the time to try to get some evidence to corroborate Rodney’s identity,” Colin said.

  “How do we do that?”

  “I have a few ideas, none of them too outrageous. I think I’ll start by taking him to London tomorrow. Rodney Scolfield is listed as a member at both the Travellers and the Alpine clubs. I should like to see if anyone at either recognizes him.”

  “Don’t give him any warning,” I said. “He’ll plant someone inside.”

  “That’s not so easily done, Emily. But I shall take your suggestion under advisement.”

  “How much do we know about the Fitzgeralds?” I asked. “I wonder if Rodney and Cora have plotted this all together. Consider this: What if Cora found out Archibald had no intention of marrying her? She reaches out to her old family friend, explains to him the situation, and together they hatch a plan. First, Cora has to find out who is Archibald’s heir—”

  “Stop right there,” Colin said. “We do know there is a real Rodney Scolfield. Cora couldn’t have planted the name with the Montagu solicitors.”

  “Perhaps the real Rodney Scolfield is dead.”

  “The solicitors would know.”

  I paused. “You’re probably right.”

  “As is generally the case,” he said. “This, Emily, is nothing more than a flight of fancy.”

  I decided to let him have his delusion of always being right. Marriage requires many such moments. Sometimes I let Colin go on thinking he was right. In exchange, he resisted questioning my political beliefs, particularly when we discussed the details of suffrage. “Unless our Rodney knew the real Rodney. Perhaps they were both explorers, and the real Rodney perished deep in the Amazon jungle—”

  “You truly have a flair for fiction, my dear.”

  “No, that wouldn’t work,” I said, hardly hearing him. I tapped a finger against my lip.

  “Your fantasies would make for a fine sensational novel,” Colin said.

  I resisted the urge to throw something at him. “I am going to invite Matilda to dinner,” I said. “I want to see her and Cora together.”

  “You expect Cora to still be here at dinner?”

  “I would be astonished if Rodney has not already invited her.”

  “Far be it from me to stand in the way of any of your schemes.”

  “Thank you. Would you object to me working in here with you?” I asked. “I’m afraid to return to the library.”

  “I would be delighted,” he said, “particularly if we both abandoned, just for a short while, any thoughts of work.”

  Heat consumed me, and I saw the same burning in his dark eyes. Truly, the man was irresistible.

  *

  We did eventually—too soon, really—return to our work, and by dinnertime I had sent a letter to the Scolfield family’s housekeeper and a stack of wires elsewhere. Colin and I gathered our guests for drinks before going into the dining room. I had always found the white drawing room to be one of the most pleasant spaces in the house. The pale color and large Elizabethan bay windows made it bright and airy, a perfect place to display our collection of Impressionist paintings, done by a group of artists I both admired and was fortunate to consider dear friends. The furniture was eighteenth century, some of it Chippendale, and the gilded chimneypiece was the only thing in the room that could be considered ornate. We had some pieces of Roman glass on the mantel, but what I liked best in the room was the alcoves formed by the bays. I had put comfortable settees in each of them and liked to read there, surrounded
by windows that looked out over the grounds stretching from the front door all the way to the stone medieval gatehouse at the entrance to the estate.

  Tonight, Matilda was an exercise in incongruity, wearing full black mourning more appropriate for the death of a husband than that of a cousin and sipping champagne without taking her eyes off Rodney, who was beginning to look less and less comfortable having Cora attached to him.

  “Cora Fitzgerald thought she was going to marry Archie?” Matilda asked, nodding in Cora’s direction. “Whatever can she have been thinking?”

  “I could not begin to tell you,” I said. “You don’t know her well?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “It seems odd. Her father is your vicar.”

  “I have passed her in church more times than I can count, and she’s been round to dinner with her father, but I can’t say I would consider her more than a distant acquaintance. She was Grandfather’s guest, not mine.”

  “You must have spoken with her if she was dining in your house.”