“And if no one did see him after that?” Matilda asked.
“Then Miss Fitzgerald has a great deal more explaining to do.”
*
Before calling on Miss Fitzgerald, I returned to Anglemore, where I summoned Meg and changed out of my riding habit, selecting my finest and most demure afternoon dress. Meg worked her usual miracles on my hair. Deeming myself presentable, I went in search of my mother and was surprised to find her in the nursery with Tom on her lap, while Richard and Henry were playing on the floor. I kissed the twins and gave Tom a pat on the head.
“I must say, Mother, this is unexpected.”
“Do not, Emily, draw any false conclusions,” she said. “The boy shows signs of an aptitude for French. No doubt this is only because he is older than Richard and Henry, but I feel I should nurture his burgeoning skills.”
“So you are conversing with him in French?”
She flushed. “I am telling him the names of nursery objects. It is nothing more than any grandmother would do.”
I raised an eyebrow but did not push her on the point. Nanny shot me a knowing smile.
“You look rather respectable this afternoon, Emily. If anything, I would say that is unexpected.”
“I am in need of help, Mother, and could not think of anyone better suited to the task than you.”
“Oh, how lovely,” she said, handing the baby to Nanny. “What can I do?”
“Terrify a young lady into better preserving her virtue.”
“You are quite right,” she said, nodding smugly. “There is no one better suited to the task.”
I briefed her on the situation as we went downstairs to the waiting carriage. The sun had broken through the clouds, so I had asked that the top be removed for the drive to Melton Carbury. My mother loved little better than lording herself over her tenants. I hoped Montagu’s and Anglemore’s would suffice for her today. With a brisk movement she opened her parasol and nodded to the footman as he clasped the door behind us after having helped us up to our seats. When she thought I wasn’t looking, she gave a little wave to Davis, who was standing on the front steps. The gesture was repeated less subtly whenever we passed someone on the road to the village.
Once we entered Melton Carbury, it was as if she were holding court, smiling and waving. “It is so very important, Emily, to be friendly with those less fortunate than yourself. It gives them such a feeling of joy to be noticed by a great lady, and costs nothing to you.”
“I tend to go for more tangible assistance, Mother. A basket of food or a doctor’s visit is often of more use than a wave.”
“I am perfectly well aware of that, you silly girl,” she said. “I do at least as much charity work as you, but it is essential to be sure to wave as well.” She pulled herself up into so regal a posture I think the queen might have objected had she been present. I suppressed a giggle.
Miss Fitzgerald received us in her cozy sitting room and offered tea, which my mother refused. “I am not here in search of libation, Miss Fitzgerald. I am on a mission of mercy. I have very great concerns about your reputation and have decided to take it upon myself to save you. We shall start by hearing from you a free and full account of your relationship with the deceased Lord Montagu.”
Miss Fitzgerald’s eyes opened wide and her jaw hung slack. “I … I … was engaged to him.”
“Silly girl,” my mother said. “Of course you were not engaged. You are the daughter of a vicar. He had inherited Montagu. The engagement was never announced, and his mother knows nothing of it. You are lying.”
“I realize it was not the usual sort of engagement,” Miss Fitzgerald said, all the color having drained from her face, “and I have come to understand I made very bad judgments when it came to Lord Montagu.”
“He was toying with you, no doubt in order to have his evil way with you while he allied himself with that hideous American girl whom we all know to be interested in nothing but his title. He would need something better than her to keep him sated.” She turned to glower at me. “Do not look at me in such a manner, Emily; you know it is perfectly true. An English rose will always be preferable to colonial trash, no matter how much money the trash brings with her.”
“Lady Bromley, I—”
“I did not ask you to speak, Miss Fitzgerald,” my mother said. “Did you let Lord Montagu have his evil way with you?”
“Never, no, of course not.”
“Then what was he doing at the abbey ruins the evening of his demise? Reading the Sunday Times?”
“He kissed me, Lady Bromley.”
“You should never have allowed such a thing,” my mother said. “It is reprehensible and a disgrace. What happened then?”
“I had to leave,” Miss Fitzgerald said, lowering her eyes, her voice little more than a whisper. “There was no other course of action.”
“I understand your meaning full well. And what did Lord Montagu think of your decision to leave?” my mother asked. “Was he pleased?”
“No, he wasn’t,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“So he did not behave like a gentleman?”
“No, he did not.”
“He let you see his frustration?”
“Yes.”
“He did not escort you back to Montagu Manor and your pony trap, did he?”
“No.”
“Where did he go? Do not bother me with the lies you told my daughter about being summoned by some nonexistent gentleman.”
“I didn’t see him go anywhere,” Miss Fitzgerald said. “I left him by the side of the lake.”
“Was he angry?” I asked. My mother glared at me. She had specifically instructed me not to speak, but I had never been good at following instructions.
“Very,” Miss Fitzgerald said.
“Did he sever his connection with you?” my mother asked.
“He did, but I know he would have come back to me.”
“And you would have been a fool to let him,” my mother said.
“Who escorted you back to the stables?” I asked.
“No one,” Miss Fitzgerald said. “I was all on my own. The guests were all inside.”
“The groom saw you with a lady in a red dress.”
“He is mistaken, Lady Emily,” she said. “Of that I am certain beyond doubt.”
“Why, after all this, did you go to the widow’s farm?” I asked. “I should have thought after being so upset you would have wanted to go nowhere but home.”
“I was more upset than I have ever before been in my life,” Miss Fitzgerald said. “Home, however, was the last place to offer solace. My father, Lady Emily, is a vicar. Do you think he would welcome the knowledge of what had happened between Lord Montagu and me?”
“You would not have had to tell him,” I said.
“Of course she would,” my mother said. “Don’t be ridiculous, Emily. What else could she do?”
“You are quite right, Lady Bromley,” Miss Fitzgerald said. “I would not have been able to help telling him had I gone home, and I did not want to do that. So I refocused and fixated on something else that might provide distraction.”
“The widow and her ailing child,” I said.
“Yes.”
It was a plausible explanation, but not all I would have hoped. “One more thing, Miss Fitzgerald,” I said. “Lady Matilda gave you a great deal of money recently. Could you tell me about that?”
“It was nothing out of the ordinary, really,” she said. “I organize the charitable relief work we do in the parish, helping families when they need it. My father is better suited to talking people through their problems than to dealing with the financial side of the work.”
“Your father was a missionary for years,” I said. “Surely he is no stranger to organizing more than conversation.”
“He’s perfectly capable of doing it, but he prefers to leave it to me now that I am able to help.”
“Why did Lady Matilda put the money into an account in
your name?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t she?” Miss Fitzgerald asked. “You are perfectly welcome to look through my records. I am very thorough.”
“I for one have heard quite enough,” my mother said. “Money? We are to sit here and talk about money? It is not to be tolerated.”
I bundled her out of the house, but not before having taken Miss Fitzgerald up on her offer to see her records. There was nothing in them that aroused suspicion. Still, I was not wholly convinced.
*
“That was very nicely done, Mother,” I said as we drove back to Anglemore.
“You tricked me, didn’t you?” she asked. “You were not worried that Miss Fitzgerald is at risk for immoral behavior. You think she killed Lord Montagu, and that, Emily, is something in which I will not be involved. I do not do what ought to be left to the police. I do not dirty my hands when it is not necessary. And I never, ever would let anyone think a countess needs work to fill her time. Do not pull me into your sordid world again.”
“But you are so good at it, Mother.”
“I will discuss it no further.” She looked away from me.
I felt like a naughty ten-year-old and was not much enjoying the sensation.
“She knows something more,” my mother said, still not looking at me. “He was angry, and he did not just stand there watching her leave. Why won’t she tell us what happened?”
I bit back a smile, worried that any show of enthusiasm would stop the conversation. “I do not believe she killed him,” I said.
“Why on earth not? He probably grew violent with her. He may have even struck her.”
“He was not in the habit of striking his paramours,” I said, “and Miss Fitzgerald is not some maid he thought he could toy with.”
“It is all very well and good that you consider her a lady and someone near your station, Emily. That is your bizarre and incomprehensible way of dealing with the world. However, there is a natural order to things, and like it or not, a vicar’s daughter is nothing more than a glorified servant to a marquess.”
“I don’t agree. He told her he was going to marry her.”
“A bit of fun that his friends probably laughed with him about. Mark my words,” she said, “something more happened by that lake, and if you want to know who killed Archibald Scolfield, you are going to have to figure out what it was.”
I shuddered. Could my mother prove an adept investigator? Every sense revolted.
Downstairs
xvii
Lily had never felt so nervous in her life as she did now. She had finished her morning work and had gone upstairs to change out of her uniform so she could meet Lord Flyte—Simon, she corrected herself—for the picnic he had promised her. She wished she had a nicer dress to wear, but at least her blue serge was flattering. It was well cut, and the color suited her. There was a sharp rap on her door, and for an instant she wondered if it was Mrs. Elliott, telling her she would have to work this afternoon.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Meg,” came a voice from the other side. “Lady Emily thought you might like a bit of assistance with your hair.”
“Come in,” Lily said.
Meg opened the door. “Heavens! You’re a fright! Do you mean to scare off Lord Flyte?”
“It’s my best dress,” Lily said.
“I am not talking about your dress,” Meg said. “I am referring to the stricken look on your face. This is supposed to be fun, you know. Sit down and let me get to work.”
Meg pulled the pins from Lily’s hair and started to brush it.
“I’m just so awfully scared,” Lily said. “I don’t know what I’ll talk to him about. He’s traveled everywhere, you know. He’s a man of the world.”
“The world isn’t so different from England.”
“Is that true, Meg? You’ve been all over with Lady Emily. Tell me something I can say to make him think I’m well informed.” Meg was twisting and turning Lily’s hair in ways she had never before seen, at least not on her own head. “I’ve got to come across as something other than wholly ignorant.”
“I didn’t like to travel at first, you know,” Meg said. “I was fierce with Lady Emily about being as English as possible when we were away from home. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to leave our lovely island, but there her ladyship was, traipsing off to Paris and Vienna and all those other places. I despised it. Everything seemed so different. The food, the people, nothing was familiar. Then I got to know a lady’s maid in Paris. She works for one of her ladyship’s friends, and, oh, how I do adore her! She showed me Paris, and I fell in love with the place. It took me a while, but I suppose that’s not so unusual for a person who hasn’t traveled. In the end, Paris is just a city, like London, and you used to live in London.”
“Yes,” Lily said, “but now I stay at Anglemore even when the family’s in Park Lane, so it’s been ages since I’ve had what one might call a cosmopolitan experience. I did go to York once, as well, but I suppose that’s nothing like Paris. I can’t imagine Lord Flyte would be interested in hearing about York. How I wish I’d been to Paris.”
“That’s all right. Paris is beautiful, but I have come to see the world is more about people than objects or buildings,” Meg said, sticking the pins back in Lily’s hair. “Lord Flyte wouldn’t have struck up a friendship with you if he was concerned with things more than people. You caught his interest, and you don’t need to be anything but yourself with him. That’s what he liked in the first place.”
“I can see the sense in that,” Lily said, “but are you really sure I shouldn’t try to be cultured?”
“You can’t pretend to be more cultured than you are. He knows you are a maid.”
“I can talk about art with him some, but how am I to know if I’m saying the right thing? I don’t want to put him off.”
“How is one to know what is the right thing?” Meg asked. “Look at Lady Emily. She’s got all those strange paintings in the white drawing room. Called Impressionist, they are. What sort of impression they make I’d like to know. Not a good one, I’d say.”
“I wish I paid better attention when I dust the antiquities. It’s possible I could have been able to think of something to say about them. Might be easier than art.”
“You have nothing to worry about. If Lord Flyte weren’t already charmed by you, he wouldn’t be taking you on a picnic,” Meg said. She tugged a little more at Lily’s hair. “There. Take a look. What do you think?” She passed Lily a looking glass. Lily gasped. She looked like one of those elegant ladies in the fashion plates. Well, at least her hair did, all piled up and curled. She hardly recognized herself.
“Meg, I’ve heard Lady Emily say at least a thousand times that you work miracles. Now I know it’s true.”
“You would’ve known it sooner than now if you’d ever seen her hair when she wakes up in the morning. Sometimes it requires more than a miracle. Now go meet your young man and enjoy yourself. I expect a full report when you get back.”
18
My mother’s words in the carriage struck a chord with me. I believed she was right: Something else had happened beside the lake. What remained uncertain was whether Miss Fitzgerald had been on hand to witness it. Colin had not yet returned from London, and Simon had taken Lily on his much-touted picnic. Rodney was my only hope. He had spent the morning shooting and was now in the library, reading.
“Sorry to disturb,” I said, “but I am in need of a gentleman’s perspective on a delicate subject.”
“Sounds enticing.” He closed his book. “What is this delicate subject?
“Suppose a gentleman were, shall we say … entangled … yes, entangled, with a young lady to whom he had a close relationship. Suppose they reached a point beyond which no respectable young lady would go. Suppose, further, this angered the gentleman. What would he do?”
“There is nothing he could do,” Rodney said. “He must respect the young lady’s wishes. Moreover, if he was
in any sort of relationship with her, he would not want to put her in a situation that might compromise her reputation.”
“But he was angry. Would he have fought with her?”
“You’re talking about Archibald Scolfield, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Who else?”
“From everything I have heard, he was used to getting what he wanted, but not from anyone close to him, if you catch my meaning. He would not have pressed a lady to…” He looked at me and winced.
“He was angry and frustrated. Would he have gone back to Matilda’s party after such a thing had happened?”
“What other option did he have?”
“He could have looked for someone not in a position to refuse him,” I said, an ugly image forming in my mind.
“That’s a whopping accusation, Emily,” Rodney said.
“He has a history of involving himself with girls below his station. He trifles with them and then leaves them. Just never ones in his own household.”
“Not all of those sorts of relationships stem from undue pressure,” Rodney said. “I am not suggesting he wasn’t a beast for taking advantage, but girls like that sometimes let themselves believe something more might come of it.”
I thought of Lily, setting off almost this minute with Simon on her picnic, and wondered if I had made a grievous mistake. Was I being naive, trusting that a gentleman, even one as enlightened as Simon, could have a genuine interest in getting to know a housemaid? Had I put Lily in a position bound to cause her hurt and pain? I did not believe Simon would trifle with her, but his good intentions, however noble, might lead Lily to hope for more than was possible.
“Thank you, Rodney. I do appreciate your thoughts, more than you can know.”
“Do me something in return?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Be a little easier on Boudica, would you? She’s more sensitive than she lets anyone know. It is grinding her up inside to think you are suspicious of her.”
“Why do you say that?”
Behind the Shattered Glass: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries) Page 22