Surprised, Ariel tried to compose herself as she went to see who could be so bold-faced as to disturb her at such an hour. It was, she discovered, Mrs. Merriweather.
“Hello, my dear,” the older woman said in a kindly voice. “I wanted to make certain that you were all right.”
“Y-yes, of course I am,” Ariel replied.
Mrs. Merriweather stepped forward, into the room, and Ariel had little choice but to step back. “Are you?” the colonel’s wife asked.
She ought to have answered calmly; she ought to have insisted that she was. But there was something about the somewhat short and slightly plump older woman that made one want to confide in her. And instead of sending Mrs. Merriweather away, Ariel found herself saying, in a voice that gave way as she did so, “No, I am not all right. I do not feel as if I shall ever be all right again!”
Mrs. Merriweather reached out and Ariel went into the arms she held wide open. And for the second time that day she gave way to tears. It was absurd, it was foolish, it was not at all what her papa would have said she should do, but it happened. Mrs. Merriweather, much like Captain Stanfield, held Ariel and stroked her hair and murmured soothing words while the younger woman cried.
When at last she had no more tears left, Ariel pulled away and Mrs. Merriweather made no effort to stop her. Instead she chose a chair and indicated that Ariel should sit in the one beside it.
“You feel lost, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ariel replied warily.
Mrs. Merriweather met her gaze steadily. “You wonder how I know,” she said. “It is because I was even younger than you when I lost my father. That is how I came to be a governess. My father died having lost everything, and I had no one to turn to. It was very, very hard.”
She paused and took a deep breath. “Perhaps it is too soon to broach the subject,” Mrs. Merriweather said, “but tonight I found myself thinking of you and wondering about your circumstances. I know that we ladies are not supposed to bother our heads about such matters, but that is nonsense when we are so deeply affected! And so I wished to ask you, my dear, whether you know upon what financial terms your father has left you. Will you have sufficient funds to meet your needs, or will you need to earn your way? Forgive me for prying, but I only ask because if it is so, perhaps I can help you.” Ariel hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said. “That is to say, we never seemed precisely pinched for funds, but neither were we ever flush in the pocket. I do not know how much of what we lived upon was Papa’s salary at the museum and how much might have been an inheritance or something of that sort. So you see, I honestly do not know what my circumstances are or what I shall have to do. I should like to take over Papa’s position, but of course that is not likely to happen. A woman would never be allowed to hold the post, no matter how well Papa taught me what he knew.”
“I have no doubt you are right about the post at the museum,” Mrs. Merriweather said in dry tones. “As for the rest, well, do you know the name of your father’s solicitor? If so, then perhaps, after the funeral, we should go see him. We shall need to discover what, if any, inheritance there might be. Once that is known to us, we can begin to make plans for your future.”
Ariel nodded. “I do know his name. Mr. Renfred. And while I do not very much feel like being practical right now, I suppose you are right that I must do so anyway.” Mrs. Merriweather nodded and patted the younger woman’s hand. “I know. I remember how I felt. All I wished to do was crawl into bed and never come out. But it was not possible for me and it will not do for you. The situation must be faced. At least in your case, my dear, I can make certain you need not face it alone.”
“It is more than that,” Ariel said quietly. “I find myself thinking that I ought to be with my father’s body. It seems a betrayal to be here instead, to be talking of solicitors and inheritances. I ought not to be thinking of whether I might benefit from his death.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Merriweather asked shrewdly. “Are you afraid you will be angry if he made very little provision for you? Or simply guilty at the notion of thinking of anything besides his loss?”
“Both,” Ariel said in a voice so low that Mrs. Merri- weather had to strain to hear her.
“Oh, my dear!” the older woman said, placing her hand over Ariel’s. “I truly think your father would have understood. He did not seem to me to be a man who cared overmuch for excessive mourning.”
In spite of herself, in spite of her grief, Ariel smiled. “You are right,” she agreed. “Papa had little patience for it. I still remember that the day after Mama died, he was at the museum, deep in work, and he took me with him. He said we must be practical. And I suppose he would say the same again, were he here now to advise me.”
She took a deep breath and looked at Mrs. Merri- weather. “I know that Papa would be impatient with me for crying over what he would have called his empty shell. I can almost hear his voice saying that the best way to show my respect for him is to carry on his work at the museum, so long as they will let me. He would tell me to take care of myself and to make myself useful. No, I need to mourn Papa, not for his sake but for my own.”
Mrs. Merriweather nodded. “I understand,” she said. “Tomorrow morning we shall go to the museum and you will do what you can to carry on your father’s work. In the afternoon we shall go to your house to sit with your father’s body for as long as you feel the need to be there. Will that do?”
Ariel did not trust herself to speak, and so she nodded instead. It helped so much to have someone who understood. As much as she loved him, Papa never had.
The older woman rose to her feet. Her voice was brisk but soothing as she said, “I shall let you get some sleep now, though it may be hard to come by after the events of today. Still, you must try. And tomorrow, I promise you, we shall find a way to sort out your future.”
And with that Mrs. Merriweather turned and left the room. Behind her, Ariel could only continue to sit, ensnared in the numbness that had held her captive all day. Frightened of the grief that she had been able to let herself feel only in the safety of Captain Stanfield or Mrs. Merriweather’s company. Alone it felt too terrifying, too overwhelming, to even admit such grief existed.
But she could not stay in the chair all night. At some point she moved to the bed. Mrs. Merriweather’s description of wishing to climb into bed and never come out, yes, that felt just right to Ariel. She wished she could do precisely that. But it was impossible. She had to go to the museum and work. All too soon, the trustees would tell her that she was no longer welcome there. She would also stop by the house and see that whomever the colonel had hired was treating her father’s body with respect— shell or not, he deserved that much.
Thanks to Mrs. Merriweather, she need not face any of it alone. For that kindness, Ariel was profoundly grateful.
7
It was a somber group that met the next morning at the museum. None of them had managed a full night’s sleep, and yet all of them, the colonel, Mrs. Merriweather, Captain Stanfield, and Miss Hawthorne, were determined to be there. They worked on sorting through the artifacts with unaccustomed quiet, barely speaking save when it was absolutely necessary. Hawthorne’s death had cast a shadow over all of them.
Around midmorning, it became evident that they would need help moving one of the pieces, and Ariel offered to fetch Tom. “I shall go with you,” Stanfield said at once.
Somewhat shyly, Ariel agreed. As they moved down the hallway, the captain leaned closer to her. “How do you go on, this morning?” he asked.
She met his gaze and answered honestly. “As well as might be expected. I miss my father very much, but I know he would want me to be here.”
It was at that moment they turned the corner and saw something, or rather someone, slumped on the floor. They both moved more quickly, and suddenly Ariel realized what, or rather who, she was seeing. Her screams pealed through the halls of the museum and brought a crowd of scholars and clerks running, and of course C
olonel and Mrs. Merriweather, as well.
The group clustered around the body, everyone speaking at once. Ariel clung to Captain Stanfield. It didn’t seem possible, not two days in a row, to find people she cared about had been killed. It was only his steady voice speaking soothing words to her that kept Ariel from falling apart.
Someone sent for Mr. Collins, the Bow Street Runner. He came and made copious notes. Then he announced his conclusions. There was a stunned silence in the hallway after he did so.
“Killed Mr. Hawthorne, ’e did. Then couldn’t take the shame of it, so ’e killed ’mself.”
“That’s utter nonsense!” Mrs. Merriweather retorted instantly.
“Tom would never have hurt Papa,” Ariel protested. “Nor would he have known how to load and use a gun, even if he had had one.”
“The gun is in ’is ’and.”
There were murmurs of assent at this. It was felt to be a valid point, at least by those not close enough to see the actual body. Mrs. Merriweather, however, could see the body and she did not think the point a valid one at all.
“Tom could not possibly have fired the gun and had the bullet strike him in such a way. Could he, my dear?” Mrs. Merriweather persisted.
Mrs. Merriweather appealed to the colonel, as well she might, for he had seen a great many gunshot wounds during the war. To be sure, those injuries had been from rifle shots, but even so, he, too, agreed that the injury could not have been inflicted by Tom. But he was reluctant to say so aloud. Not with so many interested ears about.
“We must be absolutely certain, Collins, as to who killed Mr. Hawthorne,” the colonel told the Bow Street Runner. “The trustees of the museum will wish to know. They have decided to pay your fee and will not be satisfied for you to simply speculate that it was this poor young man here.”
“Aye, p’rhaps so,” the Runner reluctantly agreed. “But won’t no one care about the cause of this ’ere feller’s death, now will they?”
“They will if his death is tied to that of Mr. Hawthorne,” Colonel Merriweather pointed out.
“If that’s so and we catches Mr. ’awthorne’s murderer, then we’ll ’ave this feller’s, too,” Collins retorted, jutting out his chin defiantly. “No one is going to pay me for finding ’is murderer, so I ain’t about to waste me time. The gun is in ’is ’and, so won’t no one question us if we say the young man killed ’imself.”
There were mutterings from the others, and the colonel and the Runner moved a small distance from the crowd to discuss the matter in a more private way.
Ariel looked at Mrs. Merriweather. Her face was very pale, and she looked as though she might faint. But she was stronger than she looked.
“I cannot believe, I will not believe, that Tom killed my father. Nor that he killed himself. It simply isn’t possible,” she repeated.
“I quite agree,” Mrs. Merriweather said.
“Yes, well, we must hope the Runner can sort it all out,” one of the museum staff said, coming to stand beside Ariel. “You should not stay here, Miss Hawthorne. You ladies should not be subject to such an appalling sight.”
Mrs. Merriweather and Ariel both turned to stare at the young man in disbelief. “My dear sir,” Mrs. Merriweather said, drawing herself up to her full diminutive height, “I have, I will assure you, been subject to far worse sights over the last twenty years. I have been kidnapped and bashed over the head and seen more than one dead body. This one will not send me into the vapors. But if the sight is too distressing to you, pray leave any time you choose.”
Another staff member stepped forward. “That may be very well for you, whoever you are, ma’am,” he said boldly, “but perhaps Miss Hawthorne would be glad of a respite from such an appalling sight. After all, she knew poor Tom. We all did.”
The other staff members nodded in agreement. Ariel smiled wanly at them. “You are kind to worry,” she said. “But I cannot simply walk away and leave Tom here.” Now it was Captain Stanfield who stepped in. “I share your concern about Miss Hawthorne,” he told the staff members gathered around. “And I promise all of you that if it seems to be too much for her, I shall make certain she goes home and rests.”
They did not want to agree; Ariel could read the doubt in their eyes. And she was touched by their concern. They had not wanted her here, invading their male sanctum, when her father first brought her in to help him with his work. But they had come to accept her, and now they worried over her as if she was someone they had truly come to care about.
“I cannot like it,” the first one who had spoken persisted. “We worry about you, Miss Hawthorne.”
“We all worry about Miss Hawthorne,” Mrs. Merriweather said briskly. “But the captain and I are well able to take care of her.”
“Who are you?” one of the staff members demanded with some exasperation.
“I am Mrs. Merriweather, Colonel Merriweather’s wife. We were helping Mr. Hawthorne to catalog the items donated to the museum by the Duke of Wellington,” she answered austerely. “I am also a former governess and therefore well schooled and well experienced in how to deal with a young lady overcome by intense emotion. Can you say the same?”
It was a telling reply. These were scholars and clerks. They could do little more than bow and retreat. And they did so, but not before the eldest one turned to Ariel and told her warmly, “If you need anything, Miss Hawthorne, anything at all, I pray you will let us know.”
“Perhaps they are right,” Stanfield said awkwardly after the staff members had left. “Perhaps this is too much for you to deal with, so soon after your father’s death, Miss Hawthorne.”
“No!” Ariel’s voice was adamant. She drew in a deep breath and tried to explain. “Tom has been a part of my life for the past several years. I cannot leave before I know if the Bow Street Runner will make an effort to find out who killed him.”
And with that she marched over to where the Runner and Colonel Merriweather were still talking quietly. “What are you going to do about Tom?” she demanded.
Startled, the Runner looked at her. “Do? Why send for ’is body to be taken to Potter’s Field, I reckon, ’e ain’t got no fam’ly. So ’e told me yesterday.”
Ariel shook her head. “No. I will not have him buried in Potter’s Field. He deserves better than that.”
The Bow Street Runner looked at her with some exasperation. “Oh? And ’o’se to pay?” he demanded.
Ariel clenched her jaw. She wanted to say that she would, but she honestly did not know if her father had left her sufficient funds to do so. Mrs. Merriweather moved to her side. In a voice that was gentle, she asked, “If cost were not an issue, what would you wish to have done for Tom?”
“I would want Tom to be buried at the same time and in the same place as my father. It is what Papa would have wanted,” Ariel replied. She paused and looked over at Tom’s body. In a softer, wistful voice, she said, “We used to take Tom to church with us on Sunday mornings. He loved the music and seemed to find great comfort in it.”
The colonel and Mrs. Merriweather exchanged looks. In the end, it was the colonel who gave way. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I shall arrange for the body to be taken to your father’s house, Miss Hawthorne. And I will see if it is possible for both men to be buried at the same time and in the same place.” At a further look from Mrs. Merriweather he added, “And you needn’t worry about the expense, either. Now, if you will excuse us, Collins and I have work to do. Marian, I suggest that you take Miss Hawthorne home. Stanfield, do you care to assist Mr. Collins and myself?”
Ariel expected Mrs. Merriweather to argue with the colonel. But she did not do so. Instead she drew her lips together in a tight line, but all she said aloud was, “Yes, dear.”
They watched until the men were out of sight. “Are we really going home?” Ariel asked.
Mrs. Merriweather hesitated. “I think perhaps it would be wise. We shall not be able to do any further work on the artifacts today anyway. It might be as well to go
round to your house and find out what arrangements the couple my husband hired have made for your father’s funeral. And see whether Tom may be buried then and there, as well.”
Ariel looked at the older woman doubtfully. “The colonel said we were to go home.”
“We shall,” Mrs. Merriweather said with eyes wide open. “It is simply your home, not Lady Merriweather’s, to which we shall go. If that was not what he meant, then he ought to have said so more clearly.”
In spite of the layers of grief that threatened to overwhelm her, Ariel could not entirely choke back a small laugh at Mrs. Merriweather’s reasoning. She glanced once more at Tom. It was true, she thought, that she could do nothing more for him here. And she was so very tired, after all.
Colonel Merriweather’s carriage was waiting in the usual place. Once they were settled inside and on their way, Ariel said to Mrs. Merriweather, “If Tom was shot in the back, how could the Bow Street Runner possibly believe that he had killed himself?”
“He doesn’t,” Mrs. Merriweather replied tartly. “Mr. Collins knows very well that someone else must have shot Tom. But as you heard him say, he felt no one would pay him to prove such a thing, or to discover the murderer. And if he could have persuaded us that your father’s murder was neatly resolved, he would have gotten his pay for that case and been done with his work. The fellow, I fear, is a laggard. Someone must prove him wrong. Particularly as I suspect your father’s death may, in some way, be tied to Tom’s. Perhaps the colonel or Captain Stanfield will discover something useful.”
Miss Tibbles Interferes Page 6