by Jo Beverley
She picked up the miniature of her husband that stood upon her bedside table. Smiling and handsome, he looked out on life with merry anticipation. Chloe found herself comparing Stephen’s features with Justin’s harsher ones. His expression with Justin’s bleaker one. She remembered that moment in the Sea Room when he had regained a youthful, carefree look.
She put the portrait down. Could she not summon a trace of sorrow for a life cut short so early? How could anything good grow out of such poisoned ground?
A scratch on the door brought a welcome interruption. Chloe hurried to open it and found her grandmother’s maid.
“The Duchess asks if you would join her, My Lady.”
Chloe glanced in the mirror to check that her disturbed mind was not evidenced in her appearance, and then followed the maid. The Duchess would have heard she had not gone down to luncheon. The old lady was still in bed but looked well, not in pain.
“How are you, Grandmama?” Chloe asked as she bent to kiss a withered cheek.
“Pretty fair, my dear.”
“Randal said you had the rheumatics.”
“Well, I would have if I tried to get about in this weather.” The old woman studied Chloe. “You don’t look so wonderful yourself. Got the rheumatics too?”
Chloe smiled wanly. “Just blue-deviled.”
“Randal said he’d been a damned fool, and it appears he was right,” said the Duchess.
Chloe felt herself flush. How much had Randal told their grandmother?
“Have you been in love with Justin all these years?” the Duchess demanded.
“No!”
“The truth, please.”
Chloe looked at the stern face. It was not as if she’d been able to help it. “A little perhaps,” she confessed.
“Niminy piminy. That’s not got you blue-deviled. Did you love Justin more than Stephen?”
How could anyone ask such a question? Chloe turned away and found she was twisting her fingers. “Grandmama, what can it matter? Stephen’s dead now.”
“And if you didn’t love him as much as you love Justin—I’ve seen it too, gel—you’re doubtless feeling like a regular ghoul. Let me say this. If you have been regretting your choice and making the best of it, I respect you more. Once for keeping your marriage vows, and twice for having better taste than I gave you credit for.”
“Grandmama!” Chloe protested.
“It’s the truth. What are you going to do about it now you have a second chance? Not many of us are given those in life.”
Chloe looked up sharply. “I never had a first chance. Don’t put all the blame on me. Justin never indicated the slightest wish to marry me.”
The old woman looked at her thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Ah well. It will work out. Things tend to. Randal’ll learn not to be quite so meddlesome too. It’s time his heart was touched. I worry about that boy. Far too good looking. Now, who do you think pushed Frank off the cliff?”
Chloe gaped. It was such a sudden change of subject and her mind had been completely on her own affairs. “Belinda,” she blurted out, “but I’m not sure why.”
“That’s what I thought,” said the old woman. “That maid of hers wasn’t with her all the time, was she?”
“How did you know?” Chloe asked in amazement.
The old woman chuckled. “Could claim magical powers, couldn’t I? Fact is, I heard the infant squalling as it was carried in, and then Belinda coming up later. She’s next door.”
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
“Why should I? The snobs around here would enjoy tearing her to pieces if they had the chance. If she quarreled with her lover and pushed him, God will be her judge. I just wish I was sure . . .”
“How did you know Frank and Belinda were lovers?”
“That spyglass. I’ve seen them meet a time or two. They were generally arguing, but arguing like lovers do, if you know what I mean.”
“Sometimes I think you know everything, Grandmama.”
“Old age has to have some benefits,” remarked the Duchess. “I certainly know things you don’t know. Things you ought to know.”
“You do?” queried Chloe, feeling the conversation had got away from her.
“Send Justin up to me,” said the Duchess, autocratically.
Chloe stared at her grandmother. “Don’t you dare talk to Justin about me,” she warned.
“I’ll dare what I want, gel,” the Duchess snapped back.
Then her tone softened. “But I won’t do that; I promise. Now, do as you’re told.”
Chloe stood and dropped a saucy curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The old lady grinned. “I’ve no patience at the moment for please and thank you. Off you go.”
Chloe only realized as she went down the staircase that she had no particular desire to speak with Justin just now. She was thinking of ringing for Matthew when Justin walked into the hall from the study and stopped warily.
“Grandmama wishes to see you,” Chloe said coolly, to disguise the jumping of her nerves.
He looked a trifle apprehensive. “Why?”
“I have no idea. She’s being very mysterious.”
As he walked up the stairs, however, she watched him and felt an extraordinary desire to touch him. Was it impossible? How could she tell? She needed to get away from Delamere—and away from Justin—before she would ever know her heart.
Damn the rain. They were trapped in the house together.
8
AFTER HER GRANDMOTHER’S WORDS, Chloe waited for someone to tell her those things she did not know, though what they could be she could not imagine. The dreary day plodded through, however, without revelations. To be sure, to avoid unfortunate encounters she threw herself into an orgy of housekeeping, but she could have been summoned if needed.
Most of her time was spent with Margaret, the upstairs maid, washing and polishing the china and glass for the dinner. Eventually over a hundred pieces of china were spotless, and a like number of glasses gleamed. She picked out two candelabra, and vases for flowers, wine coolers and serving dishes, carving tools and knife rests. Eventually, however, there was nothing more to be done, and Margaret was needed for other tasks.
Chloe then called Mrs. Pickering from the kitchen to go over the pantry and cellar. As they kept neither butler nor housekeeper at Delamere, the two women had shared these responsibilities, but the cook was clearly put out at being summoned to the task at short notice.
“We will not mind a simple dinner,” Chloe said by way of apology, “and it is an ideal day for such work. I would like to be sure everything is in order before I leave.”
This obviously gave the woman something else to be concerned about. “I do hope you will have a word with his lordship, My Lady, about hiring a housekeeper. I won’t be able to do everything.”
“Of course I will, Mrs. Pickering.”
The preserves, Mrs. Pickering’s pride, were splendid—row after row of jars and pots full of summer fruit. In another section were the dried fruits and pickles. Chloe gave only a cursory glance to the bins of grains, for she herself had supervised their scouring out before the new harvest was brought in.
The vegetable cellar was in order as well, cool and well arranged. Chloe looked thoughtfully at the racks of apples. For a while last year there had seemed to be a flurry of interest in apples. There had been that strange message from Stephen, to expect him up as he was to come and pick apples.
Then those soldiers had scoured the whole bay shore, supposedly looking for evidence of smuggling, and yet she had received a number of complaints about them disturbing the stores and even stealing—and always apples. And there was the Dowager, who was inclined to suddenly make strange statements about apples. Chloe had noticed that, though her mother-in-law was clearly not right in the head, she often picked on a relevant matter for her madness.
“Is something wrong, My Lady?” asked the cook in concern. “The apples are set up right, and a good cro
p this year. We’ve russets and pearmains, rennets and pippins. . . .”
“No everything looks well in hand,” said Chloe quickly. “And no further disturbances round here?”
“None at all, My Lady. The last time was in June or thereabouts and I never did fathom it out. I’m sure it wasn’t the staff, but I’m as sure no one broke in.”
“And always the apples,” Chloe mused.
“Except the last time. Then the potatoes were disturbed as well.”
“The potatoes,” said Chloe in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, it had got to be such a regular thing we scarcely paid any heed at all. That silly Rosie insists it were a ghost. Into apples and potatoes, I ask you.”
“It had obviously got its pommes confused with its pommes de terre,” said Chloe lightly.
The cook looked at her blankly. “In French,” explained Chloe, feeling her joke had fallen rather flat, “apples are pommes, and potatoes are pommes de terre, apples of the earth.”
“Oh, French,” said the cook, clearly of the opinion that that would explain any insanity. “Well I tell you sure, My Lady, if we were to have a ghost at Delamere it would be a good honest English specter.”
With that, the cook returned to her kitchen, clearly feeling she had delivered a blow against Napoleon.
Chloe returned to the main part of the house wondering what occupation she could find now to keep her out of the way of the inhabitants, particularly the gentlemen. She discovered, however, they were engaged in the billiard room and felt at liberty to retreat to the Sea Room to write letters.
Sitting as she was by the window, she could see the rain begin to slacken and the first sunshine glimmer through the clouds. Then the rain ceased. Like a blessing, a rainbow arched over the bay. Within minutes, it seemed, the bleak scene was transformed into fairyland.
Chloe found herself sitting in contemplation of the vista, letter forgotten. The rainbow reminded her of Stephen, as charming and bright, and as insubstantial. That made her think of Justin, whom she would never think of as a rainbow, who was clearly not like Stephen at all.
What element did Justin resemble? Perhaps the sea—deep, sometimes pure pleasure, and at other times dangerous power. What a strange way to think of him, who had always been a perfect gentleman.
To distract herself she tried to think of an element for Randal. A sunbeam? No—lightning, perhaps. . . .
What was she going to do about Justin? As her grandmother said, she had been given a second chance. With newfound honesty, she could admit her marriage to Stephen had not been a success. It had not been a disaster, but neither of them had found the companion they expected. He had found her too conventional. She had been dismayed by the company he kept. She knew she must have more if she married again. In Justin she sensed that possibility, but it was too new, too surprising, to be trusted.
Like the sun-washed bay, however, her mood had changed. The problem no longer seemed so bleak. She would go on her way, and if Justin chose to pursue her, so be it. The choice in the end was still hers. There were many worse things in life, she thought with a smile, than being pursued by a devoted suitor who might well be the man of her dreams.
She sang softly to herself as she went up to dress for dinner, and laughed when she found herself humming the tune Randal had played that first night:Sweet, sweet the thought of you, my dear,
But sweeter still the day now you are near.
Though, in the past, cruel fate has made us part,
The miles have never drawn you from my heart.
Unfortunately, when she rejoined the company for the meal, no one else seemed to share her light spirits. The Dowager, thank goodness, had chosen to stay in her rooms with Miss Forbes to accompany her. Stephen’s mother always picked up on atmosphere, and this one would have surely brought on one of her bad spells.
Belinda was pale and abstracted, inclined to startle at the slightest thing. Most unlike herself. Randal and Justin appeared to have quarreled and apparently were not on speaking terms. Randal was unusually sober and wary of Chloe. Justin treated her with distant formality. And the Duchess was sulking. Chloe knew all the signs—the old lady was snappish and rude, looking for someone to tear to shreds.
Chloe set out, as a good hostess, to thaw the company. After attempting a number of different topics for conversation, with only Randal offering much in the way of support, she gave up and began a monologue on the state of the household supplies.
“I think, Justin, you will find nothing wanting over the winter.”
“I’m sure the staff are pleased they will not starve,” he responded coolly, and Chloe took the message. He still intended to pursue her. Her unruly heart sent up a little cheer.
“I’m sure you are also pleased to know,” she said, “that whatever was disturbing the stores seems to have ceased.”
“Perhaps it was just a person with a passion for apples,” said Justin with a strange look at the Duchess, who narrowed her eyes, but then looked down to tackle her partridge.
“And potatoes,” said Chloe.
With the worthy intention of lightening the atmosphere, she repeated her comment about pommes and pommes de terre, confident that here at least she had an educated audience. Randal smiled, it was true, but the Duchess ignored the comment as if she had suddenly gone deaf. Justin looked thunderstruck.
After a few seconds, the moment passed.
Then, as if woken from a stupor, Justin began to hold up his end of the conversation. He abandoned whatever had come between him and Randal, and that young man, of course, immediately responded. They quipped and chatted in best Society style, and Chloe could relax her efforts.
She remembered the Duchess’s words earlier in the day. There definitely were things going on which she did not understand, and which might have a connection with Frank’s death. Justin had taken the matter very seriously when she broke the news. He had virtually assumed foul play. Just now, he had reacted to her words about the storage rooms like a hound at the scent. The two things, however, had no apparent connection. Even if Frank had been pilfering apples, that could not possibly lead to his death.
She looked around the table. Did everyone else know whatever there was to know? Not Belinda, surely, though she might well have secrets of her own. Randal? If she found Randal had been made privy to secrets about Delamere which had been withheld from her, she would have someone’s guts for garters. And how could Justin, who had been in Portugal at the time, know who had been poking around in the storage rooms of Delamere?
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Belinda excused herself and went to her rooms. Chloe determined to pump the Duchess. As she handed the old lady her cup of tea, sweet and well laced with brandy as she liked it, Chloe went straight to the point.
“Are you going to tell me what secrets you and Justin are sharing? You and Justin,” she repeated. “It’s ridiculous. Two days ago you were the remotest of acquaintances.”
“True enough,” said the old lady.
Chloe was not about to give up. “So why are you harboring secrets together?”
“I’m not harboring anything. I want to tell you, but I’ve been given my orders,” said the old lady bitterly. “Silly fat fool.”
“Justin?” Chloe queried in amazement.
“Don’t be a nodcock. There’s not a spare ounce of flesh on him. No, I mean York.”
“The Duke of York?” Chloe stared at the old lady. “What, pray, has he to do with us?”
The old lady pursed her lips. “I am not at liberty to say.”
Chloe knew she was thwarted. The Duchess might put on the airs of a spoiled child at times, but she remained a shrewd, intelligent woman. If she had determined not to speak, it would be so. Chloe could have screamed with frustration. What possible connection could there be between apples or potatoes, the Duke of York, and Frank Halliwell’s passion for Belinda?
At the Duchess’s request, Chloe went to play the piano. As her f
ingers made their way through familiar tunes, she chased unlikely scenarios around in her head: Belinda had somehow caught the eye of the royal personage, and Justin had been ordered to dispose of Frank to clear the way; there was a national shortage of apples, and Belinda and Frank had intended to steal the crop to sell in the high-priced London market; a French spy was poisoning potatoes and feeding them to the British troops on the Peninsula; Justin had lost his dearest friend to this plot and traced the evildoer to Delamere.
The Duchess abruptly announced her good night. Chloe realized it was late and the gentlemen had not come to join them. Cowards. She, however, had no intention of seeking them out and went off quietly to her own bed.
9
THE NEXT MORNING, when the maid brought Chloe breakfast, she also brought news from Mrs. Pickering that there had been further disturbances in the storage rooms. Chloe felt resigned rather than shocked. She recognized that there was something about the disturbed stores which was important. She ate quickly and hurried down to the kitchen, where the cook was supervising the preparation of toast and the making of coffee.
“I don’t know, My Lady. Speak of the devil, they say. There we were yesterday just saying it had all stopped, and the kitchen boy went to get some potatoes and found dirt all over the floor. It’s clear as day someone’s had all the taties on the floor, then put them back, but didn’t sweep up after themselves.”
Chloe went to inspect, but found Mrs. Pickering had already had the stone floor swept clean. The room looked exactly as it had yesterday. She peered around her as if the whitewashed walls would tell their secrets, all to no avail. She was eaten up with frustrated curiosity.
What she needed, she thought, was the sea breeze to blow the cobwebs from her mind. With this intent she began to climb the back stairs, which led from the kitchen area up to the higher floors. Quite clearly on the plain wood were traces of dirt.