Prelude for a Lord

by Elliot, Camille

  Lucy understood her sister’s energetic nature and sighed as she nodded.

  “I am not certain if it is related, but a man spoke to me on the street when I was returning from the market.” Alethea explained about Mr. Golding. “Did Calandra mention anything unusual about her violin?”

  “Not at all. She would be more likely to speak to you about it than to me.”

  “I know her husband bought it for her as a wedding gift,” Alethea said. “They returned to Italy for their wedding journey so she could visit her relatives. He bought it for her from a peddler. It was in terrible condition and not very expensive.”

  “Is it very old?”

  “I am not sure. I don’t know how to find out.”

  “Do you or your aunt know anyone who might help?”

  Alethea’s thoughts immediately flashed upon Lord Dommick’s lean, dark face in the window of the coach. He, along with the others in the Quartet, played their favoured instruments as well as any professional musician, which was unusual among noblemen. Lord Dommick was considered an expert in the violin, in addition to the violin compositions for which he was also famous.

  He had told her women ought not to play the violin. She would not ask him for help if he were the last man on earth. “Aunt Ebena’s friend Lady Whittlesby is a well-respected patron of music. She will perhaps know a violin maker or instrument repair tradesman.”

  “Perhaps I should go in your stead. Those may not be places appropriate for an earl’s daughter.”

  “You will not waste your half day running errands for me,” Alethea said.

  Lucy glanced at the clock on the mantel. “That reminds me, I must be going.”

  “So soon? It has been barely an hour.”

  “Mrs. Ramsland requires me to return early today to help her prepare for a dinner party tonight.”

  Alethea frowned. “She is an unreasonable employer.”

  “She pays me every quarter,” Lucy said calmly. “And an abigail’s life is preferable to being an upper housemaid.”

  Alethea grasped her sister’s hands. “Two more years. Then we shall be able to go to Italy and keep house for each other and you will never need to serve another woman again.”

  Lucy smiled warmly before leaning over to kiss her sister’s cheek. “Two more years.”

  Lucy had left barely a minute before the front door opened and Aunt Ebena entered the sitting room. Her thin eyebrows rose at the half full tea tray. “Had no appetite today?” Her deep voice was stiff.

  “Lucy had to return early.”

  “Ring for more tea.”

  “I’ll get it myself.” Alethea took the cold teapot to the kitchen, where Margaret was washing dishes sulkily.

  “This is most unpleasant,” the girl said to Mrs. Dodd. “Don’t you have maids for this sort of thing?”

  “There are no fine ladies in this kitchen, so if you dirty the dishes, you wash them,” Mrs. Dodd told her. She turned to Alethea with a tray already prepared with a fresh pot and extra cup. “I heard Mrs. Garen come home. Your sister didn’t stay long.”

  “Her employer requested her to return early.”

  Mrs. Dodd sniffed. “And Mrs. Ramsland wonders why she can never retain her servants.”

  “Who’s your sister?” Margaret said. “Is she my cousin too?”

  “Yes. She’s my half sister.”

  “Why doesn’t she live here?” Margaret scratched her nose with a wet hand.

  Alethea, used to the scandal of her friendship with her sister, was suddenly acutely aware of the impropriety of explaining that relationship to a twelve-year-old girl.

  She was rescued by Mrs. Dodd. “Never you mind,” the cook told the girl, and Alethea escaped the kitchen.

  “It took you a long time.” Aunt Ebena frowned.

  Used to her aunt’s complaints by now, Alethea ignored her and poured tea. After all, she had lived with her father’s and brother’s criticisms for too long for her aunt’s abrasive personality to affect her much.

  Aunt Ebena had already appropriated a piece of seed cake for herself. “It’s cold,” she said with a touch of petulance.

  “You could have joined Lucy and me when they were still warm,” Alethea couldn’t resist saying.

  Aunt Ebena sniffed. She took a sip of tea, then set the cup down. “Contrary to what you believe, I do not impose during your sister’s visits, not because it is unseemly for me to take tea with a lady’s maid, even though that is still true.”

  Alethea blinked at her aunt.

  “I do not impose upon you and Miss Purcell because I cannot abide the giggling that inevitably erupts when you gather over tea and cakes.”

  “We don’t giggle.”

  Aunt Ebena gave her a speaking look that made Alethea’s cheeks grow warm, but she smiled at her aunt. The older woman did not return her smile, but it was not an unfriendly omission. It was simply Aunt Ebena.

  Her aunt sipped her tea, marking the end of the topic. Alethea hesitated, wanting to say something but uncertain what to say, yearning for . . . she knew not what.

  She’d had difficulty getting accustomed to her aunt, especially since Wilfred had forced them together. But did this comment about Lucy indicate Aunt Ebena was starting to unbend, perhaps even appreciate Alethea more? Would they achieve more than this polite veneer?

  The problem was that Alethea did not know how to relate to respectable women. The women in the area around Trittonstone Park had been polite, but they had also avoided her because they disapproved of the “low company” she kept. Alethea would never have changed her behaviour to gain their approval, but their neglect made her feel lonely.

  Did she want to develop a closer relationship with her aunt? Or would it be better to be alone and unhurt by disappointments? She did not expect her aunt to treat her as her father and brother had, but Alethea’s experience with family members had been less than ideal. She realized she was idly massaging the two last fingers of her left hand and stopped.

  She was simply missing Lady Arkright, she decided.

  “Where is Margaret?” Aunt Ebena asked.

  “Still in the kitchen. Cleaning up.”

  “Allowing her time in the kitchen is acceptable until her clothes arrive and she is more decently attired.” Aunt Ebena didn’t quite sigh, but she breathed heavily as if the remembrance of Margaret’s wardrobe had been a particular trial. “However, since it is apparent the girl is staying, you must take her education in hand.”

  Alethea looked at her aunt incredulously. “Not you too.”

  “What?”

  “Lucy said I should teach Margaret French.” Alethea shoved a bite of cake into her mouth.

  “Among other things.” Aunt Ebena sipped her tea. “Lady Whittlesby’s youngest granddaughter has just left the schoolroom, so she may still have the girl’s schoolbooks. I shall ask her when next I see her.”

  Lady Whittlesby’s name reminded Alethea of Mr. Golding’s interest in her violin, and it occurred to her that perhaps the man knew of her violin because of her aunt. “Aunt, did you speak to anyone about my violin?”

  “Whyever would I do anything of the sort?” she said irritably.

  “Many of your friends are fond of music . . .”

  “They are also exceedingly proper. Why would I confess that my niece is so unladylike as to play a violin? And against my advice.” Aunt Ebena gave her a pointed look.

  Alethea’s warmer feelings toward her aunt dissipated. Why must people insist on telling her what she could not do? She realized with a surge of annoyance that it had been Lord Dommick telling her that exact piece of advice during Alethea’s season that had spurred her to master her violin over her pianoforte and harp.

  And why was she remembering that unpleasant experience with Lord Dommick? She must take herself in hand.

  “Why would you think I have spoken to someone about this?” Aunt Ebena asked.

  Alethea hadn’t decided if she ought to tell her aunt about Mr. Golding, but now she
must. She explained briefly.

  Aunt Ebena grew grave. “Why would anyone want your violin?”

  “I must speak to someone about it. I thought perhaps Lady Whittlesby might know to whom to direct me?”

  Aunt Ebena nodded. “That is a very good thought. She had an expert repair a violin that belonged to a great-uncle and could give you the tradesman’s direction. We shall visit her tomorrow. Is your violin safely hidden?”

  “Yes.” Thanks to Lady Arkright’s husband and his woodworking abilities.

  “Anyone passing by on the street would have heard you practicing,” Aunt Ebena said with a touch of asperity, for she considered Alethea’s hours of practice excessive. “But how would they know what particular instrument you owned?”

  “Only Lucy knows.” And there was no one in Bath who would understand Alethea’s passion for an instrument unusual for ladies to play. Most of the ladies she knew would be shocked.

  “I am curious to see it. Bring it down.”

  Alethea headed upstairs to her bedroom. She doubted Aunt Ebena could shed any light on the affair, but this was the first time she’d shown any interest in her music. They attended every concert faithfully, which her aunt enjoyed although she did not play herself, but at such events, Aunt Ebena equally enjoyed the company of her cronies, who were more avid musicians.

  It took Alethea a moment after opening her bedroom door to understand what she saw. Then she gasped, the air scraping against her throat. Her chest tightened until the ache blossomed down to her stomach.

  Bedclothes were strewn across the rug. Dresses had been pulled from the wardrobe. Stockings and petticoats tumbled from drawers. Furniture had been shoved askew, leaving deep scores in the wood floor.

  Someone had torn through her bedroom.

  Possibly while she’d been inside the house.

  Alethea found herself at the bottom of the staircase, her breath coming in heaving gulps and her body trembling. Her knees wobbled and she dropped to the bottom step.

  She had to tell Aunt Ebena. Was the intruder still in the house? She grasped the bannister and hauled herself to her feet. She staggered to the sitting room and flung open the door.

  “What is it?” Aunt Ebena’s voice was more irritated than alarmed.

  “My room . . .” Alethea stopped, took a breath. She had to be rational or her aunt would never understand what had happened. “We have had an intruder in the house. May still be here.”

  “Impossible.” Aunt Ebena rose to her feet.

  “My room . . .” The vision of her things tossed about by unknown hands made her shudder.

  Aunt Ebena exited the sitting room. Alethea followed her to her bedroom, and so was directly behind to catch her aunt when she cried out and stumbled backward at the sight of such disarray.

  After a moment, Aunt Ebena shook Alethea’s hands off her and straightened. “Dodd!” She hurried back downstairs.

  “Madam?” The butler appeared at the base of the stairs.

  “Someone has been in Lady Alethea’s room. Make sure the intruder is no longer in my house.”

  The butler broke his professional facade and stiffened for a heartbeat, but then quickly snapped his fingers at a footman who had found his way into the foyer at the commotion. “Come with me.”

  Alethea wanted to go with them, as if facing the intruder would somehow help her face the violation of her room and give her a sense of control. She did not like feeling helpless and weak—she did not like feeling like a victim, as her brother had made her feel.

  And was her violin still in its hiding place? Had the intruder searched beyond the more obvious places? Her panic grew from a simmering to a boiling. She could not lose Calandra’s violin. Its value, both emotional and professional, was undeniable.

  “Alethea!”

  Her aunt’s voice brought her attention back. Alethea followed her into the kitchen.

  Soon all the servants except the butler and the footman had gathered in the kitchen, and Alethea stood against the back wall with Margaret by her side. Aunt Ebena spoke with precision. “An intruder has been through Lady Alethea’s room. Dodd is checking the house to ensure they are gone.” Aunt Ebena had to raise her voice as several people gasped. “Who was last in Lady Alethea’s room?”

  The upper housemaid, Sally, began to tremble violently. “I was, to straighten up. Just before church, ma’am.”

  “Did no one hear anything?” Aunt Ebena said.

  “Most of the servants went to church,” Mrs. Hill said. “Mrs. Dodd and I were here in the kitchen with Miss Margaret.”

  “I made a poultice for Mrs. Hill’s knees.” Mrs. Dodd swiftly inhaled. “I went to the herb garden and noticed some broken branches on the bushes against the back wall, but didn’t think much of it.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Mrs. Hill said, her hand at her chest. “In broad daylight, with us in the house.”

  Aunt Ebena questioned each servant in turn, noticing if anyone hesitated or seemed to recall something.

  “Will we be safe?” Margaret whispered to Alethea.

  Alethea feigned a confidence she was far from feeling. “We shall be quite safe.”

  “Do you have a secret treasure?”

  “What?”

  “You must or someone would not break into the house to search for it.” Margaret’s eyes gleamed. “Is it gold? Jewels? Maybe a cursed pirate’s treasure?”

  “If I had a pirate’s treasure, cursed or not, I would be on my ship, sailing the high seas, rather than taking you for dress fittings at the seamstress.”

  “I would too. And I wouldn’t need dresses because I’d be in man’s breeches and wielding my deadly sword.”

  Dodd and the footman returned now, confirming the intruder was no longer in the house. The room exhaled as one, and Alethea squeezed Margaret’s shoulders.

  Aunt Ebena went to Alethea. “Go and see what has been taken,” she said.

  “May I come?” Margaret asked.

  “I am going to clean my room, not go to Astley’s Circus,” Alethea said dryly.

  At the word clean, Margaret’s enthusiasm dimmed a trifle, but she quickly said, “I still want to come.”

  Since it would keep her out of Aunt Ebena’s way, Alethea nodded and headed upstairs.

  The sight of the room caused nausea to rise up in Alethea’s stomach, but she stood in the doorway and took quick, shallow breaths.

  “A biscuit helps,” Margaret said.

  “What?”

  “I would steal a biscuit from the kitchen before I had to clean my room.”

  “I have no need for you to steal a biscuit for me,” Alethea said. “And for your information, asking Mrs. Dodd politely will usually accomplish the trick as opposed to raiding her larder.”

  “Oh,” Margaret said. “Our cook was not so nice.”

  Alethea took a deeper breath and plunged into the fray. She first went to her trunk to ascertain her violin was still in its hiding place and breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was not so terrible a mess once Alethea picked up her clothes from the floor. She shared Aunt Ebena’s lady’s maid, so she set aside the clothing she would give to the maid to be washed, pressed, or mended. Gradually she realized Margaret was depositing various items into the wardrobe willy-nilly.

  “What are you doing?” Alethea said.

  Margaret froze. “Helping?”

  “Why did you put my hairbrush into the wardrobe?”

  Margaret looked into the wardrobe at the pile of random items, then back at Alethea. “It was on the floor.”

  “So why not place it on the dressing table?”

  Margaret looked at the dressing table. “I’ll put all that in the wardrobe too.”

  “What? No. Why?” Alethea was beginning to feel as if she were in a farcical play.

  “Aren’t we cleaning?” Margaret asked.

  Understanding dawned. “Is this what you did when you cleaned your room? Throw things into the wardrobe?”

  Margar
et nodded. “It’s fastest.”

  So she could go out to play as quickly as possible, Alethea would guess. “I have a thought. What if we put things back in their proper places?”

  “That’ll take forever.”

  “Things will be much easier to find than rooting through the wardrobe.”

  Margaret looked at the wardrobe again. “I suppose so.” She picked up the hairbrush from the pile and placed it on the dressing table.

  Alethea folded a petticoat. “Surely your mother did not allow you to fling all your things into the wardrobe that way?”

  Margaret’s movements stilled for a long moment. Her back was to Alethea, so she couldn’t see her face. “No, she didn’t like it.” Margaret’s voice was softer than normal.

  Alethea bit her lip. Margaret was so cheerful a child that she often forgot the girl was still in half-mourning for her parents.

  Although Alethea still missed Calandra, she remembered that in the months after Lady Arkright’s death, it made her feel better to speak of her to others. There hadn’t been many in the neighborhood who were close to the widow because she was Italian, but when Sir William Arkright’s heir dismissed all of Lady Arkright’s servants, Alethea had visited them and helped them find new positions. Speaking to them of their mistress had given Alethea great comfort.

  But how to get Margaret to speak to her? Alethea again felt that pang of awkwardness because of her lack of experience with children.

  “So, um . . . tell me nice stories about your mother.” Alethea winced as soon as the words came out of her mouth. She half expected Margaret to burst into tears or run from the room.

  There was a long silence. Then the girl half turned toward her. “Mama never let the maids clean for me. She wanted me to learn to be neat. She didn’t like it when I threw my things into the wardrobe.” Her voice was soft, but grew in strength as she continued. “So, one day she sent the maid to tell me to clean my room. When I went to the wardrobe and opened the door, she burst out at me.” Margaret giggled.