A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  Freed from the extra weight, Captain Seymore did his best to straighten up. Even under normal circumstances, he was not such a figure of a man as would impress anyone. Next to such a lion as Mr. Cavendish, he appeared little more than ridiculous. He was short, red-faced, pockmarked, and puffy. The top of his head was bald and shining and the remaining fringe of pale hair was pulled into a sailor’s queue. Judging by the way his blue striped waistcoat strained, his paunch was new, and growing. The only aspect of him that was truly impressive was his voice.

  “Where’s my wife, you great gilded son of a whore?” the captain roared.

  “Have a care, Seymore.” Mr. Cavendish spoke in an entirely conversational tone, and yet managed to sound ten times more dangerous than the swollen man in front of him. “These ladies are my guests.”

  “Ha! Ladies. Yes. If you say so.” But then the captain stopped, and took a second look at Alice. “Wait. You’re that Littlefield woman.”

  “Good evening, Captain Seymore,” replied Alice. “How delightful to see you again.”

  “I might have known you’d be in on this thing. Another woman who doesn’t know her place is at home. And who might you be?” he demanded of Rosalind.

  “This is Miss Rosalind Thorne.” Cavendish folded his arms. “There, Seymore, you’ve met the whole of the company. If you are indeed searching for Mrs. Seymore, she is not here.”

  Seymore started backward, his eyes darting in all directions, as if he expected to see his wife lurking in some shadowed corner. But as he did not find her, the bluster bled away. He drew his shoulders back, and Rosalind thought she could see something of the proud man he must have once been.

  “She’s been here, though,” Seymore tried. “Here, and with you.”

  “I’d give you my word she has not, but since I know you won’t believe me, I’ll save my breath.”

  “Better you should,” Seymore retorted. “Liar and knave and thief that you are! You’ll put nothing over on me, sir.” Seymore pointed one fat finger at the impassive actor, and shook it. Alice clapped a hand over her mouth and looked away.

  “May we take it Mrs. Seymore is not at home, Captain?” remarked Rosalind.

  “Why would she be at home? There’s no one there but her husband!” The despair in his voice was real, Rosalind would have sworn to it. It was also becoming very evident that this whole scene was fueled by copious amounts of brandy. “What command have I over the attentions of such a woman?”

  “Perhaps she will be home when you return,” suggested Alice.

  “No, she will not be. It’s all ruined. There’s nothing left.” The captain shook his head violently, as if to clear it. “And it’s this man’s fault.” He didn’t say this to Cavendish, as Rosalind would have expected, but softly, as if to himself.

  She was not the only one who noticed either.

  “Seymore, there’s no reason for any of this,” Cavendish said. “Mrs. Seymore has not been here. Surely she just had an engagement for the evening. Miss Littlefield said she mentioned a card party at the Hoffmans’.” He looked across to Alice, who did not speak to confirm or deny this. “Let me send my man ’round to find out.”

  “No,” said Seymore, his mood and demeanor sloshing from one extreme to the other on the tide of the alcohol in his belly. “I’ll go. I . . . You’re right, Cavendish, there’s no need for this.” He blinked up at the actor. “If only you’d settle, it would all be over in a heartbeat. Just say the thing was done and let it be. You can afford ten times what I’m asking!”

  But Cavendish shook his head. “It’s beside the point, Seymore. The suit means nothing to me, but it’s everything in the world to Margaretta. I will not seal her doom to please your pride or your creditors.”

  “Then what comes is your fault. You’re not king of the world, Cavendish! I will by God see you brought low!”

  He stomped out of the room. Cavendish closed the door very softly.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Thorne, Miss Littlefield. I would not have had you witness that scene.”

  “I do not expect it will receive a favorable notice in the Times.” Alice casually replaced the knife beside her plate.

  “It’s of no consequence, Mr. Cavendish,” said Rosalind. “Although I am very sorry to see any man reduced to such a display.”

  Cavendish grimaced. “Seymore’s real sin is that he’s weak, and he’s ashamed. It’s a bad combination for such a man, especially when he’s got a whole family’s worth of disappointments behind him.”

  “Then you also think his family is urging him on in this suit?” asked Alice.

  Cavendish eyed her warily. “I forgot for a moment the newspapers were in the room.”

  “I’m asking only as Margaretta’s friend,” said Alice.

  “Yes. Of course.” But there was no conviction in his tone. He picked up his wineglass and downed the remainder of the liquid. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do believe it. Neither the captain nor his brother, Sir Bertram, has lived up to their expectations. While she lived, their mother has always blamed their aristocratic cousins for not helping enough. Sir Bertram at least took this as Gospel and has forever blamed them as well.”

  “Including the Marquis of Weyland?” said Rosalind.

  “Especially the Marquis of Weyland,” agreed Mr. Cavendish as he refilled his glass. “But the truth is, there’s not enough help that could be given. That family’s expectations will always exceed their realizations. I’m sure you know the sort.”

  Rosalind nodded. “It means they are doomed to failure, and must continually find someone to blame for it.”

  “Exactly, and the blame right now is falling on Mrs. Seymore, and me.” Mr. Cavendish gestured to himself. “Again, I don’t mind for my own sake, but Margaretta . . . this is killing her.” He sighed, and took another sip of the wine. “So there we are. A sorry tale, filled with woe and avarice and the commonplace sins of a commonplace life. I wish I could have put on a better show for you, Miss Thorne.”

  “I believe I’ve seen quite enough for the evening.”

  Cavendish smiled, and once again, Rosalind felt the effects of his charm wash over her. “And thus am I dismissed. From my own table, no less, which is a neat trick, Miss Thorne. I salute you for it.” He placed his hand on his breast and bowed. “Let me call for your carriage.”

  “May I take it then that you are satisfied that I am, as you say, the genuine article?”

  “Miss Thorne, I am positively terrified that you may be all you are reported and more. I feel I must now be very much upon my guard.”

  • • •

  “Well,” said Alice, as soon as the carriage was closed up and the driver had touched up the horses. “So that’s what the married ladies are fainting over.”

  “He is certainly a powerful draught,” said Rosalind. She and Alice were seated next to each other, with Mrs. Kendricks on the opposite bench. For form’s sake, the housekeeper was busy with a piece of darning pulled from her work bag, but neither Rosalind nor Alice forgot her. Indeed, Rosalind saw the frown on her servant’s face and her heart contracted just a little.

  “I’m beginning to feel I should apologize for dragging you into this mess,” said Alice. “I thought it was something . . . simpler.”

  “It’s not your fault, Alice. You were helping your friend.”

  “I thought I was,” she muttered. “Now I’m not so sure that I haven’t been used.”

  “By whom?”

  “Mrs. Seymore. She’s . . . Well, I can see why she gets on so well with Mr. Cavendish.”

  “You mean you think she might be playing a part?”

  “Do you?”

  “I believe the threat to her reputation, and thus her livelihood, is very real. But the rest . . . that has yet to be seen.”

  “What do you intend to do, Rose?”

  Mrs. Kendricks glanced
up sharply at Rosalind, reminding her that Alice was not the only person waiting for her answer.

  “Alice, those ushers of yours, do you think one of them might be willing to tell you which ladies have lately been seen visiting Fletcher Cavendish?”

  “You think he and Mrs. Seymore are lying about the affair, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know, but I do not like the tone of what we saw this evening.”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “I don’t know that either, and it worries me, Alice. It worries me a great deal.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Choices of a Woman Alone

  The husband very innocently, the wife most guiltily became the wretched victims of his arts and intrigues.

  —The Trial of William Henry Hall vs. Major George Barrow

  for Criminal Conversation

  “Will you want to get ready for bed now, miss?” inquired Mrs. Kendricks as she helped Rosalind off with her cloak. The house around them was still and cool, the fire having been banked before they left. The only light was that which filtered through the window from the street, and the warm glow of the lamp Mrs. Kendricks had lit when they came in.

  “Yes, please,” said Rosalind. The frown that had settled on Mrs. Kendricks’s face in the carriage had not shifted at all. Rosalind sighed. She was bone-weary and longed for nothing so much as to crawl into her bed and sleep until tomorrow. That, however, would only be delaying the problem.

  “Is something wrong, Mrs. Kendricks?” she asked.

  Her housekeeper folded Rosalind’s good cloak carefully over her arm. “That’s not for me to say.”

  “I do not agree. It is very much for you to say.”

  Mrs. Kendricks was silent for a long time, but Rosalind watched her face settle into deeper lines.

  “Miss Thorne, I have stood by you,” she said at last. “It was my duty to do so, but it was also something I was glad to do. I had hoped, however, after the difficulties with Lord and Lady Blanchard, and with Lord Casselmain returning, free . . .” She let the sentence trail away.

  “You hoped that I would marry.”

  “I hoped that you would take the clear path to a good life. The life you deserve. I thought this”—she waved toward the parlor—“would prove a way to keep yourself occupied until you and his lordship could come to an understanding.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, I’ll grant you the money’s been a blessing. It’s wonderful not to have to slink in and out of the green grocer’s, or wonder how we’re going to make the coal and candles stretch, but . . .”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kendricks? Please continue.”

  “You’re not going to stop, are you, miss?”

  “No, Mrs. Kendricks. I don’t believe I am. Not for a while anyway.”

  “If it’s not too much, may I ask why not, miss? You have such a chance in front of you. You’re not a romantic girl. You know what it is for a woman to try to live on her own for any length of time. You could be a duchess. You could wipe your feet on the rest of the world, and never have to look at a bill again.”

  “Even duchesses fall down, Mrs. Kendricks. You and I know that.”

  “That’s as may be, but a clever duchess has a much softer landing than a clever woman alone ever can.”

  Perhaps, if she’d had more sleep, or a head less full of what had occurred with Mr. Cavendish, Rosalind would have maintained her silence, at least until she had a better idea of what she should say.

  “I’m not sure I have an answer for you, not a good one. It’s only that, these past months, I’ve finally felt that I am doing something good.” She laid her hand on her bosom. “Something that speaks to my heart. I think if I were a writer or a painter and I’d finally created a work that I knew to be beautiful, I would feel much the same. All these skills, all this organizing and arranging and learning how to act and to move and who to talk to and how, I can at last take all of that and make some kind of difference with it.”

  “Yes, and with it you’ve learned to lie, and to steal, and consort with all types.”

  “You’re talking about Adam Harkness.” Adam Harkness, who spent his nights watching the world from dark corners, was a principal officer of the Bow Street Police Office. “Or is it Mr. Cavendish who worries you?”

  Mrs. Kendricks lifted her nose in the air. “I am talking of no one in particular, except you, Miss Thorne.”

  Of course not. Rosalind pushed aside a sudden burst of impatience. Still, she had started this conversation. She could not fairly complain she didn’t like the results, and she most definitely did not. There was, however, one more thing that needed to be said.

  “If you feel you cannot continue in service here, I of course respect that,” she told Mrs. Kendricks. “You will have the finest reference I can provide, and always, always, you will have my most profound gratitude for all you have done for me. This is not the sort of life either of us bargained for. I understand that another woman of sense and feeling might find it appalling.”

  Another woman might have shown a hint of a quiver, or a gleam of unshed tears, if not actually wept, but not Mrs. Kendricks. She had begun this conversation and she would see it through.

  “I will have to think on it, miss,” said Mrs. Kendricks, and that was all she said for a long time.

  • • •

  The routine of closing up the house—of making sure the parlor fire remained properly banked, that the doors and windows were locked, and the candles and lamps were all extinguished—was carried on in silence. As was the business of changing for bed, of brushing out Rosalind’s hair, and turning the bolsters. Mrs. Kendricks wished her good night, and Rosalind wished her housekeeper the same. She lay in her iron-framed bed and blinked up at the darkness. Faint lights flickered underneath the window curtains as the carriages rattled past outside.

  She had learned to sleep through the noises, most nights. Some nights, like tonight, the agitation was too great, and she must lie awake, a silent and unacknowledged witness to the life that never stilled in the city streets.

  What do I do? What have I done? The questions were not new, although the circumstances were. Mrs. Kendricks was right. Rosalind had seen the affection in Devon’s eyes tonight, and her heart had yearned toward it. He would take her to him, if she gave him the chance. She knew that, just as she knew she could make him ask for her hand—with a word, with a smile, with the small confession that she missed him and missed the ease of their friendship. It would be easy.

  Certainly it would be simpler than this odd path she had set herself on. Society was entirely about place and relative position. Life revolved around knowing to a nicety where one stood in relation to all of one’s acquaintance. But Rosalind did not know where she stood in relation to herself, never mind anyone else. There was not even a proper name for what she was doing. The cache of her birth and her breeding would be steadily worn away by the money passing through her hands and the newer, lower company she moved among. And when that was gone, who would she be?

  With these uncertainties ringing around her head, Rosalind slid into a doze. Uneasy dreams flickered through her like the passing carriage lanterns. All she was sure of was that she had missed something or forgotten something, and it was vital she find it. Even though she did not know its name.

  • • •

  Someone was pounding on the door. The noise was distant, but it would not stop. Rosalind struggled through the layers of uneasy dreams until she was able to push herself up on the bolsters and blink. The watch was calling three of the clock and all’s well, but that was somewhere farther down the street. In her modest room, the door opened and Mrs. Kendricks, in housecoat and ruffled nightcap with a candle in her hand, hurried in.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Thorne, but a messenger has come. It is from Mrs. Seymore, and the boy said it was most urgent.”

  Rosalind took the note a
nd unfolded it. It was very brief, but it seemed to take a very long time to read:

  Fletcher Cavendish is murdered.

  CHAPTER 10

  A Place Naturally Suited for Violence

  Something more goes to the composition of a fine murder . . . Design, gentlemen, grouping, light and shade, poetry and sentiment are now deemed indispensable to attempts of this nature.

  —Thomas De Quincey,

  On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts

  The constable slammed hard against Adam Harkness, just as he was about to enter the Bow Street Police Office.

  “What the devil!” Harkness staggered against the area railing, reflexively clutching the man who’d collided with him. Now that he could see clearly, Adam recognized Ned Barstow, a member of the night patrol, panting, pale, and hatless, his coat hanging open so it flapped in the morning breeze.

  “Murder!” gasped Ned. “Murder, Mr. Harkness!”

  Harkness felt himself go very still. “Where?”

  “The theater, sir! Drury Lane!”

  “Stand there.” Adam strode through the station door and into the ward room. The spare, musty chamber was filled with a dozen or so men, a combination of the “emergency” patrol who manned the office from midnight to dawn, and the early arrivals of the day’s foot patrols. Every man turned toward Harkness, from Sampson Goutier to spindly Tommy Aitch, who cleaned the boots and lit the lamps.

  “Mr. Townsend or Mr. Stafford in yet?” Harkness demanded of the boy.

  “No, sir.”

  “Run to Townsend’s house at once. Wake him up if you must, and tell him there may have been murder done at the Theatre Royal. Then you go to Mr. Stafford and say the same.” Harkness didn’t wait for the boy’s reply but turned to the men. “All of you, with me!”

  But the patrolmen were already on their feet, grabbing coats, hats, and truncheons, ready to follow the principal officer out into Bow Street’s soot-smeared dawn.

  The relief on Barstow’s face as he saw the reinforcements pouring out the door was intense. To his credit, though, he wasted no time on thanks or oaths. He just turned and ran, and Adam Harkness followed close behind. He did not need to turn his head to know the patrol was right on his heels. Their boots thundered on the cobbles and their oaths split the sounds of traffic as they dodged the mud holes, carts, and barrows.