“I hate my part in it,” he said. “I hate that I was that man. I wish that I had had more discretion.”
“I often think,” she said, “that the difference between sinners and saints is that the latter never face real temptation. We all have our faults, our weaknesses. We have all done foolish things – God knows I have, and I should never expect anyone to be spotless. How dull the world would be then.”
He looked up at her then and their eyes met.
“Very dull,” he said.
“I’m sorry my son is such a boor,” she said. “His grief has made him unpleasant.”
“Something has given him a poor opinion of women, and of fidelity,” said Giles. “Yes, Caffrey’s remarks have stuck with him, but I think he is nursing a more recent wound. Perhaps about Miss Barker. What has he said to you about her? He was affected when I told him of her death.”
“Nothing to make me think he admired her, but then, he does not confide anything important to me. He has not done for years!” she added, throwing up her hands.
“Or was he angry with her on Gosforth’s behalf? Had she been unfaithful to Gosforth?” Giles said.
“You think Gosforth killed her, don’t you?”
“It is a strong probability. Women who are murdered are often killed by a husband or a lover. It is a sad truth. If she was murdered, that is.”
“Perhaps Charles will be more amenable tomorrow,” said Mrs Maitland, rising. “Shall we go and dine?”
Chapter Fifteen
Mrs Maitland had taken care to make sure he was comfortable. It was not the largest nor grandest bedroom, but on such a cold night who would have wanted grandeur? The fire had been made up, the bed piled with quilts, while on the table a few twigs of berries and leaves had been put into a little silver vase, in lieu of flowers.
Dinner alone with her had been a pleasure, but pleasure of a constrained kind. She had been valiantly at her ease, and he had responded in kind, but he sensed the performance in it. She was worried sick about her son, and nothing could remove her distress. It had flitted about the room, like a trapped bird.
He had retired, amused but still bone-tired, his head cracking again. He did not undress but pulled off his boots and lay on the bed, enjoying the warm comfort of the room. As his eyes grew heavy, he imagined he was being cradled in her arms and she was stroking his forehead with a gentle hand – a better treatment than the little flask of laudanum.
He drifted to sleep – he did not know for how long – and woke to cool darkness. The fire was reduced to a pile of glowing ashes and the candle had burnt out. He shivered and dragged himself up, pulling loose his cravat, feeling stiff and depressingly old. At the same time, he realised what had disturbed his sleep: there was a dog yelping in the passageway nearby in a truly piteous fashion, at a pitch that sliced into his still-aching head.
He lit a candle and went to see if he could find the poor creature; it sounded as if it were seriously injured. He had encountered dogs before that were prone to dramatic hyperbole, but the noise was distressing enough to warrant action.
The miserable animal was soon in evidence, lying by a closed door – a brindled pointer that had been denied entry. Giles crouched down and attempted to comfort the wretched thing, who did seem pleased to see him, hopeful no doubt that he would be granted access to his forbidden paradise. Whose room was it, Giles wondered, that was so important to the dog? Perhaps it was that of the former Lord Milburne – surely the room could not be occupied, for no-one could have ignored such a performance.
Yet a moment later, he got his wits about him, knocked, and without waiting for a reply went straight in. The door was unlocked.
What he saw at once confirmed the sudden, dark fear that had come over him as he looked down into the pointer’s pleading eyes. Animals had instincts beyond those of humans, and this creature was afraid. A moment’s glance revealed that it had good reason.
It was a large and splendid bedchamber, very much that of the master of the house, except that the master in question had not yet come of age, and seemed to occupy the place like a shabby tenant. There was a dim, economical fire burning in the grate and one or two candles on the hearth. The room stank of strong spirits.
Milburne sat on the floor by the fire, dressed only in his nightshirt. In front of him was the bowl from the washstand, and there was a flash of steel as he turned an open razor in his hands. The dog padded over to him and attempted to nuzzle him, but Milburne pushed him away and stared up at Giles.
Giles bent down and gently took the razor from him. Mercifully the boy did not resist. Giles closed it and put it in his pocket. Milburne continued to stare up at him, as if stupefied at being delivered from his demons. Then suddenly he began to shake, bent over the bowl and began to vomit.
This went on for some minutes, and Giles busied himself making up the fire and lighting more candles. He found the boy’s dressing gown and draped it around his shoulders. Milburne sat there shivering and with unsteady hands took the glass of water that Giles offered. He took a few sips and began retching again.
Perching on a chair, Giles watched and remembered himself at the same age. He had often drunk to ridiculous excess and then suffered the painful consequences. On one occasion, Milburne’s own father had been a witness to his folly. He had not spared him a sardonic lecture, full of amused contempt for idiotic whelps who drank beyond their capacity. At the time he had wanted to punch Major Maitland in the face – an action which would, of course, have been even more unwise than his embracing the punchbowl of the previous night. But in that moment of agonized humiliation it would have given great satisfaction. He expected that Milburne would like to punch him now. His presence there implied a lecture which the boy certainly did not wish to hear.
Yet he had surrendered the razor without protest. That was no small thing. A minute or two later and he might have done the deed, and Giles would have stumbled into a scene that did not bear imagining.
Giles stretched out his hand and snapped his fingers to the dog who obediently came to him. He took the dog’s head in his hands and made a great fuss of it. Milburne had stopped retching now and was watching him.
“You have a good friend here,” Giles said. “Dog or bitch?”
“Meg,” said Milburne and stretched out his own hand to summon her to him. “Come here, girl.”
She went and pressed herself against her master.
“You should get into bed and sleep it off,” Giles said. “I don’t recommend sleeping on the floor in your condition. I’ve done it myself, and it isn’t pleasant. If you put the slop pail handy...”
Milburne groaned and stared at the fire.
“I would have done it,” he said after a long moment. “I was going to do it. I swear if you had not...” He shook his head, and said with a sob, “I am a damned coward.”
“No, it takes courage to resist such an impulse,” said Giles.
“You think there’s courage in this?” said Milburne gesturing. “In living this dirty, meaningless life?”
“Yes. It’s harder to face pain than avoid it. Tell me, are you sure George did not tell you where he got the poison?”
“I told you already – no! If I knew, I should have used it myself – and then you would have been able to do nothing about it! You might have found me dead in my bed like Annabella!” He spat out the name.
“You are angry with her,” Giles said.
“I hope she is in Hell,” said Milburne. “For what she did to George, she deserves to be.”
“That’s rather different from what you said the other day. You told me she was a sweet creature, in love with your friend. What has changed your opinion?”
“I thought –” Milburne started to say.
“Yes?” Giles said. “Come now. You can’t wish a soul to Hell without good reason. What did you really think of her?”
Milburne got to his feet and said, “I should go to bed, just as you advised.”
“Just as the
conversation does not suit you,” Giles said.
“Who do you think you are, to speak to me like this?” Milburne said, drawing himself up and wrapping his dressing gown about him, in a not very successful attempt to give himself a little dignity. “To come into my house and... and...”
He staggered a little, and reached for the mantle to steady himself.
“Yes, yes, you may go to bed soon enough,” Giles said, “but tell me what she did.”
“She tricked him.”
“How?”
“She was not – as a man would like his wife to be. She had been – unchaste. Very unchaste,” he added.
Giles nodded and said, “And you didn’t want me to know this because you felt it gave your friend a good reason to murder his new wife?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Milburne said.
“Did he ever mention anything of that nature to you? He must have been angry.”
“He was heartbroken. She was spoilt. She had spoilt herself,” he added a touch pompously.
“Has it occurred to you,” Giles could not help saying, “that it might not have been voluntary? She may have been seduced – possibly forcibly. There are many unscrupulous men about who will not hesitate to take advantage of a woman if they can. It may have been the greatest of griefs to her, and she could not bring herself to tell your friend, the man she loved.”
“She had no business accepting his offer having done that!” Milburne said. “She ought to have declined him. But no, she was so eager for it! Eager to deceive him, the man she claimed to love.”
“Do you really expect a women to make such a wretched sacrifice because of a misfortune?” Giles said.
“If a man can remain pure until marriage, then so can a woman! An impure woman, no matter how it happens, has no business marrying a good man like my friend. It was disgusting!”
“Where do you get these ideas?” Giles could not help exclaiming.
“Purity for both sexes before marriage – does that shock you so much, sir?” retorted Milburne. “Fornication for men and women is a great sin, remember. But you are of an age where nothing was held sacred except money and rank!”
“How old are you, Milburne?” said Giles.
“Nineteen,” he said.
“And you cannot hold you drink! Your father told me that at the same age, and he did not spare me his scorn. Unlike every other young man and woman of your age, you seem to be able to resist the temptations of the flesh, but you can’t resist the temptation of the bottle – nor, for that matter, of reckless spending. I have seen those bills, my Lord, and they are not pretty! Those are equal sins and you ought to consider that before you condemn a young woman without knowing the full facts. And perhaps you have been tempted by a woman, tempted to give up your own precious purity, and only just managed to resist. I wonder now, is that the case?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Milburne.
“Is there a woman you desire, whom you would like as your wife, whom you burn for? Do you worry that she is like poor Annabella – spoilt? Is that what makes you into a penny preacher, my Lord?”
“She is not spoilt! She could never be!” Milburne said. “She will never be. I will see to it. I will protect her – always!”
“Ah, there you are,” said Giles. “That is why you could not do it. Love. Who is she?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It might be,” Giles said.
There was a long silence. Milburne went and sat on the bed. At length, in a small voice, he said, “Louisa Rivers.”
“And you want to marry her?”
“Yes. As soon as I can.”
“Marry or burn,” Giles could not help remarking. “And is the young lady in agreement?”
Milburne glanced away.
“I am sure she will be,” he said after a moment.
“So you haven’t declared yourself?”
“Not yet. But soon enough I shall. All the more after all this!” he added with defiance.
“Have you discussed this with your mother?” Giles said. “Or your trustees? You’re not of age yet, after all. They may have –”
“They can say what they like. I will marry her and that will be that.”
“If she agrees to it.”
Milburne winced and said, “I think she will. I pray she will.”
“Then good luck to you!” Giles said, wondering what on earth Mrs Maitland would make of such a match. She was unlikely to be pleased with his giving Milburne even the slightest hint of encouragement. Louisa Rivers was not the heiress the roof of Woodville Park needed. But the boy needed a crutch to get him walking again. A romantic venture might be as good as anything to keep him putting a knife to his throat. If his suit was successful, of course – but then again, what girl of Miss Rivers’ age and situation could resist the prospect of being a countess?
“You will not tell my mother, will you?” Milburne said.
“About Miss Rivers?” Giles said.
“Yes, and about –”
“The razor?”
Milburne nodded.
“Please?” he said.
“She ought to know,” said Giles. “She can’t help you if she doesn’t know.”
“I don’t need her help,” he said. “What can she do to help me when she knows nothing, understands nothing?”
“That’s not the case at all –”
“She cannot know!” he exclaimed again. “I insist that you do not tell her. As one gentleman to another, I beg you, do not tell her!”
“I’m not sure I can give you my word on that, Milburne. It is a serious thing, and as your closest kin, she has a right to know that you were in such a state. You will need her help to get beyond this, even though you do not think so. Melancholia and grief – these monsters cannot be defeated alone. Trust me.”
“She cannot know,” he said again.
“She won’t scold you. She will understand.”
“She will not. She knows nothing about me.”
“She is worried sick about you! She cares for you more than anything in the world. Heavens above, man, you are lucky to have such a woman in your life!” he exclaimed. Suddenly the boy’s petulance and wilful ingratitude drained him of all resilience and energy. He wished he could simply leave and go back to bed rather than have to deal with it any more. Yet, for Mrs Maitland’s sake, he knew he could not desert the boy.
He took a breath and went on, “Very well, I shall make a deal with you, my Lord. About tonight – I will tell her you were ill from drinking and that I helped you. I will not go into details – but only on condition that you will be frank with her – entirely frank, mind – by which I mean you will tell her about Miss Rivers as well, and that you will do this sooner rather than later. If you do not give me your word that you will try to talk to her, and honestly, then I can’t give you mine. That is how it must be, I’m afraid.”
The boy shook his head.
“It is better she hears it from you than anyone else,” Giles went on. “Surely? Will you give me your word, my Lord? I will give you mine.”
He put his hand out to him and after some hesitation the boy shook on it.
Giles left him to sleep, with faithful Meg lying beside him, and went back to his own room, hoping that the boy would find his courage sooner rather than later. In that moment it struck him that Emma Maitland was the last person in the world to whom he wished to peddle half-truths.
Chapter Sixteen
Felix knew he was no learned critic, but George Gosforth’s literary output struck him as execrable. Written in a crabby hand, it was soon clear that the contents were not worth the trouble it took to read them. Neither, Felix thought, were they worth the ink nor the paper they were written on. Gosforth affected a fake medieval style, using the most obscure and pretentiously quaint language imaginable. It reminded Felix of the rooms at Whithorne Castle, stuffed with Squire Yardley’s antiquarian trash.
Surely, he thought, everything
was not better simply because it was old. That was a pernicious notion, the sort of idea that stopped people from having their children vaccinated for smallpox. He considered all the barbaric ideas and practices that men of his own profession had believed in with utter sincerity, only to see them overturned entirely by the work of one or two clever men. It made him wonder what ideas he held sacred that would seem ridiculous in a few hundred years hence, or perhaps even sooner. It made him wish he had spent the evening catching up on his medical journals rather than ploughing through Gosforth’s twaddle. Worse still, there seemed to be nothing there material to the case. He would have nothing useful for Major Vernon.
He went to bed, and hoped Sukey was comfortable at Mrs Rivers’ house. He feared she might have been consigned to some grim attic.
Next morning, as he was shaving, the waiter came in with his breakfast, and announced, “There’s a Mrs Connolly here for you, sir.”
“Send her up at once,” said Felix.
He was so delighted at the thought of seeing her that he went to the landing to greet her, towel in hand. Looking down the staircase, he almost did not recognise her. She was wrapped up in a large drab cloak, and wearing a hideous old bonnet. She had put on these items of depressing ugliness to present a humble, unthreatening appearance to the Rivers family. But then she looked up towards him and nothing could disguise the brightness of her eyes as they met his, nor the roses in her cheeks from the morning air. Even in that vile bonnet she struck him as the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.
He hurried her into the room, and pulled her into his arms, overcome with desire. She allowed him a few kisses and then gently disentangled herself.
“I’m glad you’re dressed. I need you to come back with me,” she said. “You’d better eat up,” she added, gesturing at his breakfast tray.
“Why?” he said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. He had been hoping he might lure her into his still warm bed.
The Hanging Cage (The Northminster Mysteries Book 4) Page 13