by Darcie Wilde
But experience and intuition struck Harkness, and instead of moving away, he leaned back to the door.
“I wonder, Mr. High and Mighty Harkness.” The captain’s voice drifted softly through the grating. “If you had to choose between your wife and your brother, sir, could you bring yourself to do it?” Harkness heard the captain say to the rain and the darkness. “And which would it be?”
With these words whispering in his thoughts, Harkness followed the jailer out into the air.
Could I bring myself to do it? he asked himself as he turned up his coat collar and pulled his hat down against the rain. Which would it be?
“Ah, Mr. Harkness!”
Harkness turned to see a stout little man puffing toward him, waving his walking stick and clutching a sheaf of papers close to his body. “I was told I might run into you here.” Harkness frowned at him. Who knew he was here? Not Townsend. Harkness hadn’t told him.
The man touched his dripping hat brim. “Hiram Close, Esquire. A word with you while we walk, sir?” he asked. “Preferably to someplace dry?”
Harkness shrugged and started up the street and toward the coffee house on the corner. He didn’t have much time. Townsend had already listed three new assignments for him since the inquest. To keep him busy, he knew, and away from this exact spot.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Close?” Harkness asked.
“I’m engaged to act on behalf of Captain Seymore, sir,” Close answered, and surprise stopped Harkness in his tracks.
“You are?”
“Indeed, sir,” huffed the lawyer. “And we were to go somewhere dry?”
• • •
Mrs. Morton’s Coffee Rooms were both dry and crowded, but Close and Harkness managed to find themselves a spot at the long table. They had to lean close together to hear each other over the students arguing politics and the stock jobbers arguing trade.
“There are those most anxious that the captain be cleared of these scurrilous charges,” bawled Mr. Close.
Harkness frowned. “You surprise me, sir. The captain is under the impression that his brother wishes him dead.”
“But it is not his brother who engaged me. It is Mrs. Cecil Seymore.”
Harkness drew back and stared at the lawyer, who had hunched himself over to the mug of steaming coffee. “Mrs. Cecil Seymore? His sister-in-law? Does anyone else in that house know what she’s done?” If Sir Bertram really wanted the captain dead, he would not be glad to know his dependents were acting counter to his wishes.
Mr. Close shrugged in a ripple of rusty black cloth. “That I could not say. My point is that I wish to engage you on the matter, sir. I’ve the fee, and the permission of your superior.” He patted the sheaf of papers on the bench beside him. “So far all the inquiries have centered on Captain and Mrs. Seymore. But we’ve plenty of other persons to look at. For instance, I’ll want to know what can you tell me about this Miss Rosalind Thorne . . .”
“You will not trouble Miss Thorne, sir,” said Harkness. “I’ll talk with her.”
Close’s high forehead furrowed in surprise. “Then you will take the job, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent!” Close heaved a sigh of relief, and took a mighty swig of coffee. “Now I feel sure we’ll find the guilty party. Have you any objection to my interviewing Lord Adolphus? No? Good. We’ve not much time, sir. I’m expecting the matter to go before the bench in three days at the most.”
Harkness got to his feet and reclaimed his hat. “Then, I’ll begin right away.”
Find me the little corporal, Townsend had said. And now Harkness had reason to look, and he knew exactly where to begin. But even as he strode once more out into the rain, Seymore’s words followed him.
If you had to choose between your wife and your brother, could you bring yourself to do it?
But it is not his brother who engaged me, said the lawyer. It is Mrs. Cecil Seymore.
Harkness stopped in the middle of the street and began cursing himself for ten times worse than a fool. He’d been busy with the movements of Mrs. Seymore, of Captain Seymore and Cavendish, on that night. But the captain had dined with his brother. His brother who, if Miss Thorne was right, was keenly interested in inheriting that damned title. So much so, he was urging the captain to get a divorce, and declare the child his wife carried illegitimate.
Had anyone in this mess stopped to ask themselves where Sir Bertram Seymore had gotten himself to while Fletcher Cavendish was being murdered?
Or for that matter, Adam added, because he knew what Miss Thorne would say if she were there, has anyone asked about Lady Bertram?
Harkness drew his hat down farther on his head, and set out at a run.
But when he reached Little Russell Street, it was only the housekeeper, Mrs. Kendricks, who answered the door.
“Miss Thorne is not at home, sir,” Mrs. Kendricks said, frowning at the water that dripped from his hat brim and the hems of his coat.
“When will she return?” he asked, puffing at least as badly as Mr. Close. “I have something urgent to ask her.”
“I could not say, sir,” answered Mrs. Kendricks. “She left quite early this morning.”
“Where did she go?”
“Someplace called Woolcombe Hall,” replied the housekeeper. “She seemed to think she’d be able to find herself a lady scholar there.”
CHAPTER 34
The Spreading Ripples of the Past
But it is chiefly in fashionable society that the art of quizzing forms so important an accomplishment.
—Catherine Gore, The Sketchbook of Fashion
Mr. Clements’s guidebooks declared the village of Woolcombe to be picturesque but unremarkable, with the exception of its singularly fine and dramatic old hall that belonged to the Onslow family. For the coach ride, Rosalind had brought with her a small basket with some sandwiches and a bottle of barley water that Mrs. Kendricks insisted she take, and a muffler, in case it turned cold. She also tucked a stack of letters in her reticule, including the one from the woman Mr. Clements called the most respected scholar of modern manuscripts in the United Kingdom.
It had been written in the tidiest, and tiniest, hand Rosalind had ever seen.
Dear Miss Thorne,
I was most interested to receive your letter and would be glad to look over the correspondence you mention.
I regret that it is not possible for me to travel as far as London. If you do not wish to trust your business to the vagaries of the daily post, you are welcome at Woolcombe Hall on any day. If you cannot come direct to the hall, the landlord at The White Swan will be able to arrange for you to be brought to us.
Sincerely yours,
Elizabeth Onslow
Woolcombe Hall, Woolcombe
All the while, Rosalind felt the passage of time beating like wings against her mind. Three days. Maybe four, Mr. Harkness had told her after the inquest. Only now it was two days, maybe three.
And she knew nothing at all, except that Captain Seymore had not killed Mr. Cavendish, and Mrs. Seymore could not have. But Mrs. Seymore might know who did commit the murder, and she might have planned the crime.
Two days, perhaps three, before the trial, and then one or two hours that would clear Captain Seymore or condemn him absolutely. Rosalind had to know the truth before then, to save the captain, and protect herself and those around her.
Yesterday, when Rosalind returned from her exhausting and disheartening trip to see Mrs. Seymore, she found Louisa’s aunt and chaperone, Mrs. Showell, sitting in her parlor.
“How is Louisa bearing her loss?” Rosalind asked, once the polite preliminary greetings had been exchanged.
“Oh, Louisa.” Mrs. Showell sighed. “Louisa went out with a group of her silliest friends, all of them in heavy mourning for Mr. Cavendish, with veils, which she spent three quarters
of her pin money on. The rest was spent on white roses so they could gather on Mrs. Sullivan’s balcony for the express purpose of tossing them down onto the hearse, or the heads of passersby.”
“I wonder that you allowed it.”
“Oh, I knew Mrs. Sullivan would not let them do anything too foolish, and it is better she exorcise it from her system. Now. It is not Louisa’s behavior I’m here to talk about. It is yours.”
“Mrs. Showell—”
“Oh no,” Mrs. Showell interrupted firmly. “I see you getting on your dignity, my girl, and I will not have it. Your name is now painted all across the newspapers alongside the ridiculous stories about that actor’s murder. While it is titillating, it is hardly the sort of notice a gentlewoman hopes for. We must therefore rally our resources to make sure it is well and widely understood that although the situation is not at all respectable, you yourself are merely a victim and a bystander and none of us hold you to be in any way touched or spoiled by the situation.”
It took all Rosalind’s training in deportment not to let her jaw drop.
“A full frontal assault is our only option,” Mrs. Showell went on. “I’ve let it be known I’m calling here to invite you to our supper party, and of course, you will be seen with Louisa as soon as I can persuade the ridiculous girl to come out of mourning. Then, there is the Thompkins ball and concert being given to close out the season. I have already spoken to Lady Thompkins about your invitation. You will make up one of our party.”
“Mrs. Showell, I appreciate your concern, but it is truly unnecessary.”
“It is highly necessary. There is still a chance my nephew will bring you around to his way of thinking. If you are to become the Duchess of Casselmain, you must do so without this cloud hanging over your head.”
Rosalind felt her cheeks begin to heat.
“None of that, Miss Thorne, if you please. You are angry at me, I can bear that. You are proud. I approve. I also know your family, and your circumstances. Frankly, I admire the way you’ve handled a situation that would have crushed many of us. It is my opinion, Devon could do far worse than you for his wife.”
His wife? The words repeated themselves in Rosalind’s mind. No. You cannot think it. It is not possible. I cannot. He cannot . . .
“Devon has made no declaration to me,” she said.
“I know that as well,” replied Mrs. Showell. “But you and I both know he has lost a considerable portion of his heart to you. But set all that aside and curse me as an interfering old woman after I leave. Now we must be practical. If you and Devon reach an understanding, you know that you must demonstrate that you are still accepted by society. If no understanding occurs, you still need that acceptance to be able to continue your current mode of living.” The canny old dame smiled triumphantly. “There now, I’ve surprised you. Well, you are not the only one who understands the order of things. So I may assure Lady Thompkins and Louisa of your acceptance?”
Rosalind paused, searching for the flaw in Mrs. Showell’s argument, but not for long, because there was none. “Yes, of course you may tell them.”
“Excellent.” Mrs. Showell heaved herself to her feet. “Sensible girl. I don’t suppose I can convince you it would be to your benefit to drop the poetess entirely?”
“It might be, but I cannot. I have made promises.” That, of course, was not the only reason to continue her association with Mrs. Seymore, but it was the only reason Rosalind could give which Mrs. Showell was likely to accept.
“Well, I would not have you break your word, but you do understand that I cannot have her about until the matter is cleared? After that, we can wait a decent interval and I will receive her and we will see what can be done.”
Despite her troubles and amazement, Rosalind felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this direct and practical woman, who had come here for the sole and simple reason of helping those she cared for. After the Seymores and the Weylands, it was a breath of sweet air to Rosalind’s weary, worried heart.
“Mrs. Showell,” she said. “I imagine you know that I agreed to accompany Lord Casselmain and Louisa to walk on the new bridge on Sunday?”
“Oh, yes. Where is my head? Devon did mention that. I will make sure Louisa is sensibly dressed.”
“If you’ll permit me, Mrs. Showell, I think it would be better if she was allowed to keep her mourning for the outing.”
Mrs. Showell arched her brows and then she chuckled. “I spy your plan, Miss Thorne! You may be right at that. Now, chin up, and for heaven’s sake, put some sort of end to this sorry affair! We all need some rest.”
And with that, she sailed out, leaving Rosalind alone, and barely able to breathe.
• • •
As the letter had promised, the landlord at The White Swan was perfectly ready to arrange for a pony trap to take Rosalind from the post coach up to “the hall.”
“We’s used to Miss Onslow’s people traipsing through here,” he said cheerfully. “Never can tell who’ll be along next.”
Now Rosalind stood at the door of a sprawling squared-off structure that looked more like it had been built to hold off invading armies than to house a family. The windows were entirely blank, and the walkway and the garden were both overgrown and deserted. The bell out front clanged harshly. The first reply was the squawking of the infuriated chickens in the courtyard.
The second was the huge, heavy woof of an annoyed hound.
At last the door opened with a long, pained creak. Rosalind clutched her basket to her side and told herself not to be ridiculous.
“Miss Thorne? How do you do?”
Rosalind found herself face-to-face with the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. She was the embodiment of the English rose. Her hair was the true, pure, pale blond, her cheeks perfect pink, her eyes wide and clear blue. Her peaches and cream skin was marred only by several black smears on her delicate fingertips.
Dressed for the evening, she would have caused exclamations in any ballroom. As it was, she wore a plain blue housedress and a gray smock. A great, gray wolfhound stood beside her, wagging its tail slowly.
“Miss Onslow is expecting you,” the girl continued. “If you will follow me, please?”
With the feeling of stepping into one of Mrs. Cuthbertson’s novels, Rosalind stepped into the dim hall. The beautiful girl and her great hound led Rosalind through cool, and entirely empty, corridors. Time and neglect had dimmed the linenfold panels and the grand tapestries. There was no sound except for their footfalls against the stone.
“We are rather isolated here,” said the girl. “All Miss Onslow’s time and resources are dedicated to the library. And here we are.” She stopped before a great carved door that was a match for the hall’s entranceway. But this one opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges, and Rosalind stepped into another world.
It was indeed a library, but Rosalind had never seen its like in a private home. This was the result of generations of careful and patient collecting. It was a great long hall, two stories high. The walls of the main floor were lined in bookshelves. Above that, an elaborate catwalk circled the whole of the hall, with yet more shelves above. Long slanted reading tables stretched down the center. Iron chandeliers (none of them lit) hung from the vaulted ceiling. The only windows were those set near the ceiling, and Rosalind could discern the individual sunbeams as they streamed through.
Rosalind became aware her mouth had fallen open. Her guide smiled. “Yes, it does have that effect on people who see it for the first time. Miss Onslow is in the back.”
The hound had already trotted ahead, and Rosalind and the young lady followed him to the far end of the hall. A broad desk waited there, with two lamps burning on it. The woman who sat there looked up at Rosalind’s approach and stood to welcome her.
“Here is Miss Thorne to see you, Grandmother.”
Grandmother? But she’s Miss . . . Ro
salind shoved her shock quickly into the back of her brain.
Miss Onslow proved to be a wispy cobweb of a woman. The top of her head barely reached Rosalind’s chin. Her white hair had been neatly braided beneath her cap, but a few locks had slipped free to float around her forehead and ears. Her eyes were almost lost in the wrinkles, but they nonetheless sparkled bright and keen as she took Rosalind in.
“Miss Thorne, how delightful!” she cried, her voice surprisingly mellow and smooth for so ancient a dame. “No, now, none of that,” she said as Rosalind made her curtsy. “We do not stand on such ceremonies here. I had enough of them when I was a girl. Come and sit down and let us talk about your problem.”
“Miss Thorne must be hungry,” said the granddaughter. “I’ll go see if Gemma has anything to eat.” She left, with the wolfhound trotting hopefully behind her.
Rosalind was staring again.
“Rebecca is beautiful, is she not?” said Miss Onslow calmly.
“I, ah, yes. She is your granddaughter . . . Miss Onslow?”
“The youngest of them, and the only one who chooses to make a home with me.” Miss Onslow settled herself once more behind her desk and waved Rosalind to the chair that had been set beside it. “Now, Miss Thorne, tell me of yourself. How is it these letters and their attendant problems have fallen to you?”
Rosalind forced her thoughts away from this extraordinary home and its inhabitants back to the matter that had brought her here. “I have a friend who has entered into some difficulties . . .” she began.
“No,” said Miss Onslow abruptly. “No. It will not do. I cannot help you, Miss Thorne.”
“Perhaps if you were to look at the letter . . .”
Miss Onslow waved her hand. “I do not need to. I already know I can be of no use.”
“May I ask why not?”