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

by Tasha Alexander

  Lily had made her way halfway up the stairs to assist the footmen with their preparations for the evening meal in the dining room when Mr. Davis stopped her.

  “Lady Emily wants to see you immediately,” he said. “She is in her dressing room.”

  This could be nothing good. Lily felt her insides curdle as she thanked the butler and made her way to the wide corridor along which the family bedrooms ran. She should have told Mrs. Elliott about the book. That had to be what this was about. Her sin was one of omission rather than a direct lie, but no employer was going to take her side in that argument. A maid’s character was as important as her efficiency. Lady Emily could find ten girls capable of doing Lily’s work as well as she without having proven themselves lacking in virtue. Lily took a deep breath and weighed the options before her. She would not be given a character, and without that would be unable to get another job in service. There was factory work to be had. She could go back to London, or perhaps Sheffield or Manchester. It wouldn’t matter, really. She hated the thought of cramped, dirty conditions, the sound of whirring machines—she was certain factories were full of whirring machines, though she was not sure why—and a workday without a single moment of pleasure. She had grown so fond of Anglemore and its beauty, but it was all about to end. She would never be a lady’s maid now. She would never see the world.

  Lady Emily’s dressing room door loomed before her. Lily blinked back tears, furious with herself for having behaved so stupidly, and straightened her lace-edged cap. She pulled herself up as tall as she could, ready to face her penalty, and knocked on the door. Meg opened it, smiling as she ushered her inside. Lily couldn’t believe Meg knew nothing about her imminent downfall. How could she be smiling? Meg had always been kind to her before.

  Lily realized she needed to stop the rush of thoughts in her brain and focus on her mistress, who had already started to speak.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Lily,” Lady Emily said, fastening a pair of heavy ruby earrings. “Meg, would you leave us for a moment?” Once the lady’s maid was gone, she continued. “I have just had a rather lengthy conversation with Mr. Hargreaves and Lord Flyte.”

  “Yes, madam, I know that you must be frightfully angry with me about the book,” Lily said, tears streaming down her face. “I ought to have told Mrs. Elliott, but I was so afraid—”

  “Good heavens, Lily,” Lady Emily said. “I had no idea you were so upset. Come, I can finish with this jewelry later.” She took Lily gently by the arm and led her out of the dressing room into her bedroom. Lily’s best efforts to stop her tears were failing miserably.

  “I am truly sorry, madam,” Lily said. “I don’t know what’s got into me.”

  They sat on a pale blue silk chaise longue tucked into the alcove formed by a bay window, and Lady Emily took hold of Lily’s hand. “There is no need to apologize. You have done nothing wrong. Mr. Hargreaves and I were talking to Lord Flyte about his relationship with you.”

  “It’s not a relationship, madam, really it’s not.”

  “Dry your eyes and do try to calm down,” Lady Emily said. “Lord Flyte admires you and would like to have a real friendship with you, but we are all sensitive to the fact that such a thing between two people of different ranks can be viewed as inappropriate.”

  “Is it inappropriate?” Lily asked.

  “Not if you are behaving in a virtuous way, which I know you are. Lord Flyte has asked if we would allow him to see you on your days off. Would that be agreeable to you?”

  Lily looked down and closed her eyes as she nodded. “Madam, it would.”

  “I shall let him know you are amenable. He will be most pleased,” Lady Emily said. She looked Lily over with a great deal of scrutiny. “I am aware that you are interested in becoming a lady’s maid.”

  “Yes, madam, but that is not to say I am dissatisfied in my current position,” Lily said.

  “I do appreciate that,” Lady Emily said. “It is admirable that you have ambitions, and even more so that you want to pursue your interest and talent in art. It is these qualities, Lily, that make you stand apart from the rest of the staff and that have drawn Lord Flyte’s attention. Frankly, it is those same qualities that impressed me when you first came into my employ.”

  “I never intended to make a spectacle of myself.”

  “I am well aware of that.” Lady Emily raised Lily’s chin so that she could see her face. “Lord Flyte explained that he gave you a book. Why did you think you ought to tell Mrs. Elliott about it?”

  “I thought she would be angry that I accepted it.”

  “You have every right to accept any gift you deem appropriate,” Lady Emily said, “regardless of what Mrs. Elliott thinks. It sounds like a beautiful book, and I know Lord Flyte is very much looking forward to hearing your opinion of it. I shall talk to Davis and apprise him of our conversation and have him make sure you face no obstacles from Mrs. Elliott. It is most unorthodox to encourage such a friendship, Lily, but I do believe it is the right thing.”

  Lily swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to tell Lady Emily the book was gone; that would only cause more trouble with Pru. She worried, though, about what she would say to Lord Flyte. She would have to tell him the truth. Once he knew how careless she had been, it would be doubtful he would ever want to speak to her again. Perhaps that was for the best. Lady Emily had assured her there was nothing inappropriate in his attentions, but could that really be true? The desperate feeling of longing in her belly made Lily know that, inappropriate or not, there was nothing she wanted more.

  15

  The expansive grounds at Anglemore provided more walks than one could take in a lifetime. Directly behind the house was an elegant formal parterre, where a fountain featuring a statue of Apollo driving his chariot stood in the midst of geometric beds of flowers edged by low hedges. To the west was a dense wood Colin assured me had never been cut. He claimed, with the fervor of a little boy who earnestly believes everything his nanny tells him, that it was the most ancient wood in all of England. In the eighteenth century, a series of serpentine paths had been cut through it and classical sculptures, cascades, fountains, and two summerhouses placed in its midst. It was virtually impossible not to get lost in the woods, even, as my husband had proved on more than one occasion, after having spent one’s youth exploring them.

  Directly to the east of the house was another formal garden, primarily hedges, and a long, narrow pool that provided an excellent view from the windows of the wing of the house overlooking it. South of that was the walled garden, lush with roses and everything Cook might need in the kitchen. The walls of this garden were heated, making it possible to grow exotic fruit on them, even in the winter. Between the walls and our hothouses, we had pineapples, nectarines, pomegranates, and even bananas on the estate.

  North, beyond the parterre, stood a pretty wilderness that met the woods at the edge of the lake. Nearer the lake, on the top of a gently rolling hill, stood a lovely little temple, the prettiest folly on the grounds, dedicated to the muses. Inside it was a single room, more window than wall, with sweeping views of the countryside in every direction. One would be hard-pressed to find a better spot for a picnic on a day that suddenly turned rainy, or a more suitable place to curl up with a book when one craved silence and solitude.

  The ruins of the abbey were on the opposite end of the lake, just beyond the woods. I had spent the hours since dawn that day, the rainiest in recent memory, trudging through the mud to as many of these places as I could in search of gardeners and grooms to whom I could speak about the night of the murder. Colin had talked to them in the immediate aftermath, but we often found it helpful to interview people a second time, when they’d had longer to process the events and to remember details that might have initially escaped their notice. Furthermore, I was searching for a specific member of Anglemore’s Gang who had gone away from the estate the morning after the murder. The Gang, as they were called, was comprised of men who had worked on
the estate but were now more or less retired. In exchange for continued housing and a small wage to supplement the pension Colin paid them, they walked the grounds and kept them tidy. They swept leaves, made sure the paths were clear, and helped the gardeners pull weeds. It was a common arrangement on large estates, and a way for much-loved employees to feel they were continuing to make a contribution after harder labor became too difficult.

  Our Gang were a congenial lot, always ready with a quick joke and a smile. Today was no different. I came upon the man for whom I was looking and one of his compatriots as I crossed the wilderness back in the direction of the house, the hand not holding my umbrella thrust deep into the pocket of my gabardine raincoat in a vain attempt to ward off the damp, chilly air. They hailed me with shouts of welcome and hearty waves, and scolded me in a most affectionate manner for being out when the weather had turned so wet.

  “I would never go outside at all if I waited for it to stop raining,” I said, “and I assure you I am doing everything possible to keep myself dry. How are you two faring today?”

  “Fine, fine, Lady Emily,” one of them answered. “It is good of you to ask.”

  “Better now that we’ve seen you.”

  “Thank you. I know Mr. Hargreaves has already talked to you about the night the Marquess of Montagu was murdered.”

  “No, madam, he hasn’t,” the first said.

  “Yes he did.” The second gave the first a friendly shove. “Has your mind gone?”

  “I was away the next morning, wasn’t I?” The first shoved the second back. “Me grandbaby was being baptized. I only just got back from my daughter’s in Shropshire last night.”

  “Yes, I realize that and was hoping you could perhaps help me now. Were you working that evening? I know some of you helped Lady Matilda prepare her grounds for the party she hosted for Lord Montagu.”

  “I did assist with that,” he said, giving a vigorous nod. “Nothing of note to report on that count, but I can tell you something else that might be of interest. There was a lady walking in your grounds with a gentleman I believe was Lord Montagu. I saw them late that night, long after the party had started. I had stayed on at Montagu once I finished working, as I’m friendly with some of the gardeners there. Dined with them and shared some ale before walking back home. I cut through the grounds, Lady Emily, to make the way shorter. I do hope that’s all right.”

  “Of course it is. What time was this?”

  “Round about ten o’clock, I’d say, but don’t take that as reliable as the queen’s word,” he said. “I already admitted to the ale.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Are you certain about what you saw?”

  “Yes, madam, I wasn’t tight. Not like that.”

  “Where were they?”

  “They was heading towards the old abbey as was, where Lord Montagu met his end.”

  “You are quite sure?”

  “I don’t know that they ever made it there, but they were only a good hundred yards away when I saw them.”

  “Can you describe the lady?” I asked.

  “She had light hair and wasn’t wearing a fancy dress—not fancy, like a costume, but whatever it is you ladies call those contraptions you wear to balls. He was all gussied up, but she wasn’t. Looked rather ordinary.”

  “Could you see her face?”

  “Only enough to say she looked right pretty to me,” he said, “slim and nice, but I wasn’t close enough to make out details. That big harvest moon was the only light, you know.”

  “The moon was exceedingly bright that evening,” I said.

  “It was indeed,” he said, “or I wouldn’t have seen anything at all.”

  “You have been a great help,” I said.

  “I was planning to tell Mr. Hargreaves all this today. This useless one”—he motioned to his companion—“said the master was right fierce about making sure we all spoke to him as soon as we could. Would’ve done it earlier if I hadn’t been away.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I shall pass all this on to Mr. Hargreaves. He will be in touch if he needs anything further.”

  “Very good, madam,” he said. “Anything else we can do for you?”

  “No, thank you. I hope to see you both again soon. Take good care of yourselves.”

  *

  Miss Fitzgerald did not seem particularly pleased to receive me that afternoon. I had rushed back to the house, changed into a riding habit, and gone at top speed to the vicarage in Melton Carbury, where I found her at home. She looked better than she had when I first met her, just after the murder. Her complexion was still pale, but her hair was less wild, and her appearance generally neater. She was no longer, however, wearing mourning, and I asked her about this.

  “I stopped,” she said. “Archibald, well, I hardly know what to think of him now. Do I mourn as a fiancée or as an acquaintance? I decided on the latter.”

  “Has Rodney Scolfield’s turning up provided comfort?” I asked.

  “I thought it might,” she said. She blushed, just a little, and frowned. “I tried to force the issue, but got nowhere with it. He doesn’t much like me, you see.”

  “I am sorry. You are in a miserable situation.”

  “It is to be expected. Why should he like me? We hardly even know each other, and I suspect I was always more fond of him than he was of me. I had hoped he could provide a distraction from this dreadful business. Nothing cures a broken heart like new love.”

  “I hate to have to dredge up the night of the murder again, but I have some new information that pertains to you.”

  “Me?”

  “One of the workers at Anglemore saw someone walking with Archibald that night, and his description of the lady is a perfect match for you.”

  Miss Fitzgerald’s features were motionless. She stared straight ahead, seemingly focused on nothing. I did not press her to reply, wanting her to take the time she needed. Eventually she spoke.

  “I was there,” she said and took a deep breath. “Archibald had been at Montagu for days and hadn’t come to see me. I thought I would be invited to the party, not as his fiancée, but as the vicar’s daughter. The old marquess had always included me in such events.”

  “Was your father invited that night?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t,” she said. “I am not sure why Lady Matilda left us off the list. It may have been nothing more than an oversight, but I was hurt, particularly as Archibald didn’t notice and extend the invitation himself.”

  “So you went to confront him?”

  “No, nothing so dramatic as that,” she said. “I sent him a note that afternoon and told him how I felt. He replied with a gracious apology and said that there was not much he could do given the lateness of the hour, but that if I came to him when dinner would be finished, we could go for a walk. So I did.”

  “Why did you leave Montagu and cross onto our grounds?” I asked.

  “I hardly noticed we had done until we were nearly upon the old abbey.”

  “There is a wall, Miss Fitzgerald. You would have had to go through a gate to pass through it.”

  “Yes, I suppose we did, but I cannot say I was paying particular attention to my surroundings until we reached the abbey.”

  “Did you go inside?”

  “No, we did not.”

  “You did not go inside, not at all?”

  “I told you we didn’t.”

  “What did you discuss while you walked?”

  “If you must know, Lady Emily, there wasn’t rather a lot of talking. We were under that gorgeous moon. Did you see it? It reflected so beautifully in the lake by the ruins. Can you blame me for wanting kisses more than conversation?”

  “Only kisses?”

  “How can you ask such a thing?”

  “A murder occurred shortly thereafter. Of course I am going to ask.”

  “Yes, only kisses,” she said. “I am not foolish enough to go beyond that.”

  “Even though you were engaged?�
�

  She sighed. “I suppose I may as well admit that I had started to believe I was more in love with Archibald than he was with me. He was so hesitant about discussing wedding dates, and you were right when you questioned his sincerity after learning of the plans we did make. I had never dreamed of eloping. What girl does? I had always wanted my father to perform my marriage ceremony in his church.”

  “Had you told Archibald that?”

  “He said it wasn’t grand enough.”

  “But eloping was?”

  “No, eloping was on an altogether different scale, and therefore more acceptable, or at least more understandable. If we were to have any sort of public ceremony, it would have needed to be at St. Paul’s or Westminster Abbey or at least St. Margaret’s in London, with hundreds of people I had never met and hundreds of people Archibald had told me he couldn’t stand. He wanted something small, and knew that would only do if we eloped. He said it would disappoint his mother, but she wouldn’t take it as a direct insult.”

  “What time did you leave him that night?”

  “I couldn’t say. I wasn’t wearing a watch.”

  “Have you an idea of how long you were together?”

  “Perhaps an hour, maybe a bit more,” she said. “I’m not sure.”

  “Did he escort you home?” I asked.

  “No, he had to return to the party.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “I’d left my pony trap at Montagu.”