by Dana Cameron
“Perhaps I might stay until that time, Miss Chase?” Mr. Lamb said.
I shook my head. “I thank you for your pains, but I would prefer you leave us to this. It would not be kind to the servants to expose them to unfamiliar faces on what must certainly be a terrible occasion for them.”
He withdrew, reluctantly I thought, and that left only me, Tommy, Mr. Chandler, Michaels, and the footmen there.
“Mr. Chandler?” I said. “I think that you would be more comfortable in your room. Thank you for your concern, but please, for the sake of our people—”
Tommy was looking out the kitchen door to the darkened house beyond. He turned to me and said sharply, “It is my desire that Matthew stays, Margaret.”
My brother’s stern tone of voice and use of my proper Christian name was a slap in the face. I was so unused to this peremptory manner in him toward me that I found myself unable to answer.
I drew myself up, blinking back tears. “As you will, Thomas. I will be in my chamber, if you should need—”
“I do not want you to leave, Mags,” he said, quite his usual self. “Only… I need you to talk to the maids. It would be more… seemly… if you are there with us.”
I blinked again. Tommy was as changeable as spring weather, which was unlike him. Clever enough, but foolish quite frequently, his temperament was equable and mild, and he seldom made anything of his role as eldest son. But now, something was troubling him, for I had never heard him so, and he and Chandler looked even more anxious than required by our present situation. As for the seemliness of him being in the maids’ chamber, surely the presence of Michaels and Mrs. Billings was more than enough.
Or perhaps Tommy wanted me there for another reason. He knew, better than anyone in the house, of my peculiar interest in the well-being of the maidservants. He was the only one in my family with whom I’d discussed the revelations that had come on the death of my fiancé, and perhaps that was his reason.
But why insist on Mr. Chandler’s presence? Surely the man was an impediment—the thoughtless clod—and would scare the servants into silence by his imposing presence alone, when we needed them to be as open as possible. And, it was an embarrassment to us Chases, who, I may modestly say, enjoyed a character for generous hospitality: To have a man present who’d not only witnessed the outrage of the theft—or misplacement—of Mother’s gift, but to find a dead footman to boot? It was the disgrace of the age, the food on which Dame Rumor thrived upon.
I bowed my head in assent, unable to read anything from Tommy’s face and unwilling to ask him in front of a stranger. I bade Michaels and the footmen to remove the body to some place where it could be tended, took my candle, and led the way to the maids’ quarters, the steep wooden stairs dancing with shadows from our flickering lights.
In the chamber she had shared with Betty, the giddy maid Sally was sobbing hysterically. Mrs. Billings the housekeeper was by her side, and cast me a look of desperate fear. She knew better than anyone what this might mean for the staff: They were, traditionally, the first to be suspected, innocent or no.
“Mrs. Billings, did you see what happened?” I asked. Tommy and Chandler, for all their eagerness to play a part, stayed well in the background.
“I did not, I came when I heard her screams. And I can barely make sense of what this fool Sally is saying, she blubbers so. Too much Christmas ale, I’m sure. She said a man came into her room, and then… I can get nothing more from her.”
Surely the girl had had a terrible fright, I thought, to be so incoherent. Mrs. Billings was too harsh with her. “Perhaps… thank you, Mrs. Billings. You may go. I’d like to talk with Sally, if you please.”
The woman left reluctantly, and I felt a surge of dislike for her. She was an admirable housekeeper—scrupulously honest, meticulously organized, and a scourge to dirt and disorder—but a notorious gossip and a tyrant with the housemaids, if we let her.
I pulled my shawl closer over my dressing gown, all too aware of the cold wind banging a branch against the outside of the house. Sally’s bed was pushed up against the chimney for warmth, and she was wrapped in a quilt, her face streaming with tears. Her cloak was spread over the bed for additional warmth, and I was glad that we did not stint on the stuff we gave the maids, whether new or castoff, gift or perquisite.
“Now, Sally, my girl,” Tommy began, “tell us what happened. How did Simon end up at the bottom of the stairs?”
His words were meant kindly, but Tommy had about as much understanding of the womanly mind as he did of waistcoats: He had all the best intentions in the world, but his aspirations were far beyond his grasp.
Sally took a look at him and promptly burst into even louder sobs.
I gently pushed him to one side, indicating with my eyes that he should stay in the shadows. A glance at Mr. Chandler told me that he understood as well.
I picked up a stool and sat next to the bed, waiting for Sally to catch her breath. Perhaps she was worn out, perhaps she was unnerved by having three of her betters watch her, but the girl’s native modesty won out and she composed herself.
“Sally, can you tell us what happened?”
The girl took a few more hitching breaths, and then stammered, “He came into the chamber. I wasn’t yet asleep.”
I bit my lip, frowning. “Then Simon came up here?”
“No! Miss, he would never dare! He only did tonight because—” She broke off, white as a sheet at what she had just admitted.
I knew what she was afraid of: Fraternizing between the male and female servants was frowned upon, and an… intimate visit… absolutely forbidden. We were, after all, responsible for the well-being of our maids, or why else would their parents allow them to come into our service?
“So Simon… did come up here?” As soon as I said it, I recalled that the reason Sally had been rebuked for giddiness was that she had been mooning over Simon for several weeks now.
“No, Miss! It was a gentleman!”
As bad as a footman might be, this was worse. “Who was it?” I asked.
“I could not say, Miss. It was dark as dark can be, it was.”
“Then how do you know it was a gentleman?” I insisted. “Sally, this is a grievous charge to lay before anyone, but to make such a claim when you do not have even the evidence of your own eyes?”
At this the maid had the decency to blush, and I feared that I’d caught the girl in a lie.
“It was… he didn’t smell like no footman!” she blurted out.
I blinked, horrified. “I beg your pardon!”
Sally looked deathly afraid, but continued. “He… well, Miss, even if my eyes are shut, I can smell the difference between boot polish, firewood, and the kitchen as opposed to perfumes and fresh laundry, Miss. This was a gentleman, unwanted and unwelcome, in my room.”
“I think you must be mistaken, Sally,” I said, my heart sinking. “Or perhaps it was some trick of being still asleep. It was Simon we found at the foot of the stairs.”
“That was after, Miss!” Somehow Sally had found her composure. “I screamed, being startled so, realizing that there was someone in the room. The man… he put his hand over my mouth, but I kicked at him and scratched at him and screamed again—”
Good for you, I thought. Not many would have been as brave as that, footman or gentleman.
“—and it was then I heard Simon shout below, down on the stairs. The gentleman ran out. I heard a struggle, and a cry…” Here she began to weep again.
If Sally was telling the truth, then this was more than an accident… I exchanged a horror-struck glance with Tommy, who’d gone pale.
I was about to protest again, when I was struck by a chilling thought, a reason for murder. “Sally, did you know that a very valuable piece of jewelry was stolen today?”
She nodded. “Yes, Miss. I’d heard. It was all over the kitchen. A terrible shame that the jeweler’s boy should play such a prank.”
She said it so disarmingly that I beli
eved her instantly.
“Mags?” Tommy motioned for me to come aside. “What ever makes you think there is a connection?” he whispered. “Isn’t it bad enough that the girl’s got caught meeting her lover—he must have fallen down the stairs in the dark and broke his neck—that you’ve got to accuse her of worse things as well? Even if she didn’t steal a thing, well—meeting a man? She’s bound to lose her place, and with this blemish to her name, she won’t get another. It’ll be her ruin.”
“But I don’t think she’s lying,” I whispered back. “She seemed genuinely affrighted, when we came in—”
“Yes, afraid she’d been caught—”
“Thomas, a moment, please.” Mr. Chandler had been so quiet that I had forgotten he was there at all, something of a miracle, considering how large he was. “Miss Chase, why did you ask about the suite? The two seem to be unrelated.”
I prepared to snub the man: Who was he to ask me questions, and to decide what was related to what? It was only for Tommy’s sake that he was here at all, and most improperly, too. It was too much. And the sight of a few golden hairs and his collarbone peeping through his good lawn shirt was unnerving, to say the least.
It was not for him that I answered, but Tommy-should know my reasoning, in any case. “It… it’s worse than an accident or possible assignation, I fear. Sally’s an honest girl, and… I… there was a moment, when I wondered… whether the theft of the jewelry might also have occasioned murderous violence.”
Tommy caught his breath and Mr. Chandler’s expression was very grave.
I continued, before they could protest. “If the jeweler’s boy did not take the earrings and brooch, then perhaps… well, there was a moment when Sally, Simon, and my father were all together. On the occasion of the arrival of you gentlemen, she was outside, sweeping, and then came in to help. There was such a… tumult, that perhaps the box with the gift might have been removed then. If so, wouldn’t the worth of the gems be motive enough for murder?”
“There was some confusion, was there not?” Mr. Chandler scratched his head, remembering. “I’m sure matters were unnecessarily complicated by the… high spirits of the party.”
“Quite so,” I said. “There’s also… I have reason to believe that Sally is telling the truth. Her manner is entirely open, despite her tears. I think she was first afraid because she was being… attacked… and then because she heard that Simon was dead. Not because she imagines that she’ll be held responsible for the man’s death, or for the loss of the jewels, or both.”
I hesitated, not wanting to follow my thoughts to their logical conclusion. “If Sally is lying, we shall find out soon enough. But if she is not, it means that someone else attacked her, for Simon certainly did not.”
“Why is that?” Tommy demanded.
“Because there were no scratches on his arms or face,” I said. “I noticed nothing besides those hurts that might have come from his fall down the stairs.”
“Neither did I notice anything like that,” Mr. Chandler said.
Was that approval I saw in Mr. Chandler’s face? Or surprise that I should notice anything at all?
“But Mags,” Tommy said, his whisper more urgent now. “What if Simon was in league with Sally, and came to claim the trinkets—?”
I nodded as if in reluctant agreement, taking the opportunity to observe Mr. Chandler’s hands and face. I never would dream of asking our guests to show their hands to determine whether the maid was telling the truth, but that did not mean that I wouldn’t make the most of a chance that presented itself. And Mr. Chandler’s excess of curiosity and his very quick arrival on the scene—in a state of undress—did make me wonder.
His were very nice hands, I had to admit, unmarked, save for evidence that he made copious use of pen and ink. They were not smooth, and it was clear to me that he rode often, without gloves. The side of his face (for I could only observe his profile) was also unmarred, strong, but well made, and though I am not especially partial to light-haired gentlemen, I was surprised to find that he was very good looking, in an unpolished sort of way. He was the sort of gentleman, I noted, who would be careless in his dress. He was clean enough to be decent, and dressed to fit his station—though it suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea what that might be. From Oxford, was all I knew, and whether that was the town or the university, I had no more clue.
Since he was good looking, I immediately hardened my heart. I know what a fair face can hide.
“Then we are at an impasse,” Mr. Matthew Chandler said suddenly, and I blushed, aware that he’d caught me staring.
“Unless we get more information to illuminate our ignorance, or we find the jewels, we have no way of determining what went on this evening. Or, rather, corroborating what the maid’s told us.”
I was grateful to him for that, in spite of myself. Rather, I decided, it was decent of him to not immediately judge Sally.
“I suppose that the easiest thing to do is turn out the staff and search their rooms,” Tommy said. I could tell that his spirits were quite low, and that the very thought of such a thing was abhorrent to him.
My eye lighted on the cloak, which I recognized as my sister Lydia’s from several years back. That sparked a thought in me, and it was so strange, so wonderful, that I knew the Almighty had inspired it. I tested each part of it, much as a seamstress tests her work, to ascertain a garment will stand under the weight of its fabric. The excitement rising in me, I pulled Tommy aside to the far corner of the room, where we could confer privately.
“Given your pranksterish nature, Tom,” I whispered, “and your sometime lapses of judgment regarding personality—here I think of your foolish attachment to the empty-headed Caroline Denbigh—I must ask you: How much do you trust Mr. Chandler?”
I could see the thoughts flying through Tommy’s head at my curious question, and although he almost drew himself up to protest, the earnestness of my demeanor and the urgency of the situation won out. “I trust him with my life, Margaret,” he said simply. “And I will tell you why you should, too.”
What he related briefly to me was so extraordinary that I could not but be amazed at my brother. I looked at Mr. Chandler, seeing him in a new, more favorable light, and was profoundly disturbed to see the man watching me closely as well.
“And so you see why I could not tell you before,” Tommy concluded.
I nodded.
“And what’s wrong with Caroline Denbigh?” he blurted, all trace of his new-found maturity fleeing on the instant.
I sighed. “At the conclusion of this ordeal, I will make a list for you. But now, Tommy, if we are agreed, we must move forward with my plan.”
———
A few moments later, Tommy was at his most authoritative when he addressed the servants, who were waiting for us in the kitchen. “Where’s Simon now?”
“In the cellar, sir,” answered Michaels. “We wanted to wait until we had word from you before we rendered him the last offices of a friend.”
“Excellent. There will be a service for him tomorrow, but for tonight, you should all return to your rooms.”
A sudden wailing from the upstairs maids’ room drew every eye, and Tommy’s face was grim. “Cease your noise! Sally, I will not tolerate this. I’m certain that when my father hears of this, you’ll be turned out of the house in the morning. Only consider our shame in being forced to take such action at Christmastime!”
Muted sniffles were heard from above, and Tommy turned to the rest of the servants. “I won’t have such goings on in this house! And if I find that any of you had any hand in the theft, it will be the worse for you!”
I don’t know where Tommy learned to behave like this, but if Mother or Father had seen him, they would not have recognized their son. I hope they would have been appalled. But it was not my place to say anything now, so I bit my lip and lowered my eyes.
Tommy pounded the table with a ferocity that made us all jump. “To bed, all of you!”
<
br /> Servants stared, then scattered. Two remained behind, uncertain what to do.
Tommy turned on them. “You, men!”
The visiting gentlemen’s valets jumped out of their skins. “Yes, sir?”
“If your masters don’t require you awake and abroad, then I suggest you get to your room as well. I’m not in a mood to be dealing with anyone else’s people tonight; I’ve had a stomachful of my own!”
The valets bowed: Mr. Fairchild’s man followed Michaels upstairs, and Mr. Lamb’s man took a glass of wine and a biscuit on a tray and hurried back toward his master’s room as if a lit fuse was hanging from the back of his britches.
Tommy, Mr. Chandler, and myself were left alone in the kitchen. Tommy puffed out his cheeks. “I hope never to have to do that again. If there is nothing else, I believe I shall retire for the night.”
“God keep you, Tommy.” I kissed him on the cheek. “Mr. Chandler, I wish you a good night. With any luck, this will be behind us by tomorrow morning.”
I returned to my room, my feet quite freezing despite my thick stockings. I thought of the appeal of my bed, but was too wakeful after the night’s events and revelations. There was no sleep in me, and I would feel more than useless abed while others kept a lonely watch. My heart went out to Sally; I could not imagine what thoughts tormented her now, at what should be a time of peace and goodwill.
My book, however, was down in the parlor where I’d left it hidden, and so resolved to see in the dawn, I dressed hurriedly, took my candle, and returned there. I poked the ashes until I found the sleeping embers and added some fuel; no point in calling a maid, as I suspect they were cowering in their beds, amazed at Tommy’s display of anger. The little fire sprang up, reminding me of the Yule log we kept burning through the twelve days of Christmas at Carisbrooke, lit with the remains of the one from the year before. For luck, or so Cook had it.
Or so it was supposed to be, I thought, frowning. Father had neglected that tradition as well, using new kindling, much to the superstitious Mrs. Baker’s dismay. Between the mincemeat and the Yule log, there was plenty of ill luck on us now.