by Candace Camp
The meal was over, their business done, but Rachel felt a curious reluctance to leave. It was pleasant to have someone to whom she could talk this freely without worrying over what he thought of her or if she had said the wrong thing, as she often did with Michael.
“Well, I guess it is time to go….”
“Yes.”
Neither of them made a move to get up, however. Rachel thought of the things she had waiting for her to do at home. There were calls she ought to return, but it would probably be too late for that, fortunately. There was the cunning little baby cap that she was making for Miranda’s and Dev’s child. There might be some household matter she had to resolve, and then later she would have to choose a gown and dress for dinner at the Mannings’. Her life, she thought, was unfailingly boring. She wondered exactly when she had grown tired of having nothing to do but dress and eat and attend social events, when the round of parties and plays and operas had taken on a dull routine.
Today had been much more interesting.
Resolutely, she pushed that thought aside, for life was rarely like today, and rose from her chair. “I had better find a hansom.”
“I will escort you.” Michael stood up and walked with her out of the room, holding the door for her and walking out after her, his hand going naturally for an instant to her elbow in a courteous gesture.
Rachel felt his touch all through her. She kept her eyes carefully in front of her, afraid that if she glanced at him, she would blush. Did he feel it, too, this explosive sizzle that ran through her at the merest touch? Or was it merely some mad reaction that belonged to her alone?
Whatever it was, Rachel knew that the best thing for her to do was to go home and never see this man again. She also knew that she would not heed her own advice.
* * *
Rachel laid her plans for approaching the late Mrs. Birkshaw’s lady’s maid. She thought that Lady Esterbrook would probably allow her to interview her new maid, although she would find it an odd request. However, Rachel thought that the resulting conversation with the maid would be awkward and stilted. She would get a far more honest reaction from the woman about her former mistress and that lady’s death if she could approach her more naturally.
By happy coincidence, Lady Esterbrook lived on the street that ran along the other side of the park across from Rachel’s own home, little over a block away. Therefore Rachel took a pad and charcoal and, donning a bonnet, went into the park and took up a position on a bench from which she could observe the Esterbrooks’ front door. For a day and a half she drew, or pretended to, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the Esterbrook door. On the second afternoon she was rewarded by Lady Esterbrook leaving the house, a neatly and much more inexpensively dressed woman trailing a step or two behind Lady Esterbrook’s stout figure. With any luck, Lady Esterbrook was being accompanied on her walk by her maid.
Excited, Rachel leaped to her feet, dumping the pad and charcoal pencil onto the ground. Leaving them there, she walked quickly through the park in the same direction in which the other two women were going. She had to make a detour to leave the park by its main entrance and then cut back over to their street, by which time they were half a block ahead of her. However, it was easy enough to keep them in sight, and she did not want to get close enough for either of them to notice her, anyway.
Lady Esterbrook dawdled in front of a millinery shop, looking in the front window at a display of hats, so Rachel had to idle where she was to keep far enough behind them. Since there were no store windows in which to look beside her, she fiddled with the buttons of her glove as if there was something wrong with it, glancing up now and then to see if they had moved on. When they did, she started forward once more. A few minutes later Lady Esterbrook stopped again to look into a window, and Rachel felt a twinge of impatience.
But then Lady Esterbrook said something to the other woman and went into the store, leaving the other woman waiting idly on the sidewalk. Rachel was certain now that the other woman was her maid. She would not have made a friend or even a hired companion loiter on the street instead of going inside the store with her. Rachel quickened her pace until she drew level with the woman. She glanced at the maid and took a step past her, then stopped and turned and came back to her.
“Martha?” Rachel asked in a tentative voice.
The maid glanced at her in surprise. “Yes, miss?”
Rachel smiled. “You are—I mean, you were Mrs. Birkshaw’s lady’s maid, were you not?”
The woman, who looked to be a few years younger than Rachel, beamed. “Why, yes, miss. How did you know?”
“I knew your mistress,” Rachel said, telling her the story she had concocted last night. “I saw you once at her house. Perhaps you don’t remember me. I am Mrs. Glendenning.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” the maid said a little blankly.
Rachel was counting on the woman’s not contradicting a lady of quality. She went on quickly. “Poor Doreen. I was so sad to hear about her death.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Such a dear, dear lady.” Martha’s eyes filled with tears, which made Rachel feel somewhat ashamed of herself.
However, she reminded herself that she was trying to discover if the woman had been murdered, surely a project worthy of a bit of lying. “I can see you were very close to your mistress.”
“Oh, yes, I was. She was so good to me. Give me all her cast-off clothes, she did. Some of them were much too fine for me, but I cut them up and used the material for curtains and pillows and such.” She heaved a sigh.
“I hope she did not suffer much.”
Again the maid’s eyes filled with ready tears. “She was powerful sick, ma’am. Her stomach, you know. I felt so sorry for her. But there weren’t nothing I could do for her. She couldn’t hardly keep nothing down, poor thing, and it got to where I had to feed her her soup and all.” She shook her head.
“It must have been devastating for Mr. Birkshaw.”
“Oh, aye. Now, there is a gentleman. And handsome!” The starry look that came into Martha’s eyes bespoke volumes about how she had viewed her mistress’s husband. “The missus, she loved him something terrible. She thought the sun rose and set on that man. And he was good to her. As soon as they sent word to him that she was sickly, he came home right away. And he sat by her bed every day, he did. I remember, even there at the end, her sayin’ to me, ‘Martha, he’s the best husband in the world. He means everything to me.’ It made her real happy, even feelin’ so sick like she was, that he visited her.”
Rachel felt tears sting her own eyes at the maid’s simple words. They had brought home to her the reality of Doreen Birkshaw’s death, the pain and sorrow of those who loved her. Her life had ended far sooner than it should have, and if, as Anthony suspected, it had been murder, then whoever had done it had acted in a manner so wicked that Rachel could hardly conceive of it. She could not help but feel a further pang at hearing how deeply the woman had loved Anthony, knowing that he had not loved her in return.
“I am so sorry,” Rachel told the maid sincerely. “It doesn’t seem fair that her life should end so quickly.”
“I know—when there are so many others in the world that don’t hardly deserve to live.” A quick glance from her toward the store gave a clear indication in which group she was inclined to place her present employer. “Oh, there’s my lady now.”
“Well, I won’t keep you, Martha. It was so nice to see you. Mrs. Birkshaw was truly lucky to have had you.”
Martha smiled and bobbed a quick curtsey to her. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very kind of you.”
Rachel could see the door to the shop opening to her side, and she nodded to the maid one last time and walked away. It would not do to meet Lady Esterbrook and have her call her by her true name right in front of Martha. She should have thought of that before, she told herself; she had thought the situation only partway through, knowing that it was unlikely that Mrs. Birkshaw in York would have been friends with a titled Londo
n woman. If she was going to continue to investigate, she was going to have to learn to be more thorough.
She started walking back to her house, crossing over to the next street to avoid running into Lady Esterbrook and Martha. As she walked, she mulled over what Doreen Birkshaw’s maid had told her. Before she reached her house, she stopped, then turned and hailed a hansom cab. She called out Lilith’s Neeley’s address to the driver and climbed in.
* * *
When Rachel arrived at Lilith’s house, a maid showed her into the drawing room, where Lilith was sitting with a well-dressed gentleman. She sprang to her feet when the girl announced Rachel.
“Oh! My! Lady Westhampton…I, uh…” She cast a glance back at the gentleman, who had also risen to his feet. He was a dark man who looked faintly familiar to Rachel. “Lady Westhampton, I’m not sure if you know Sir Robert Blount.” “I don’t believe we have actually met,” Rachel replied with a smile that hid her racing thoughts.
She had heard Sir Robert Blount’s name a time or two, she thought, and she was rather sure that she must have seen him sometimes at parties, though he was not someone who moved in exactly the same circle she did. However, he was obviously someone of the aristocracy, and his presence here in Lilith’s house, as well as his casual state of dress, his coat off and folded over the back of the couch, sent her leaping to the obvious conclusion that he was Lilith’s lover.
Rachel hardly knew what to say. She had never been in such a situation before. Her mother or Araminta would doubtless have lifted her nose, turned and walked out. However, Rachel found it difficult to snub anyone—other than Leona Vesey, of course—and, besides, she rather liked Lilith. So she walked across the room, extending her hand to the man.
“How do you do, Sir Robert?”
“Very well. And you, my lady?” There was, Rachel thought, a definite twinkle in the man’s dark eyes.
“Quite well, thank you.” Rachel turned to extend her hand to Lilith. “Good day, Mrs. Neeley.”
Lilith murmured something, her cheeks turning pink, and gestured vaguely toward a chair. “Won’t you sit down, my lady?”
“I am sure you ladies must want to talk alone,” Sir Robert went on smoothly. “So I will be on my way. Lilith?”
She shot him a grateful look and a parting nod, and he picked up his jacket, draping it over his arm, and walked out the door.
“I—uh, forgive me, Lady Westhampton,” Lilith began apologetically.
“There is no need to apologize,” Rachel told her firmly. “I should apologize for coming here unannounced and chasing off your other guest.”
Lilith smiled. “You are very kind, my lady.”
“It seems to me,” Rachel went on, “that as you are my husband’s sister, we could dispense with ‘Lady Westhampton.’ I wish you would call me Rachel.”
Mrs. Neeley looked shocked. “Oh, no, my lady, I couldn’t!”
“Please? As a favor to me? I feel most dreadfully out of place, you see, with you using my title all the time. Here I am, imposing on your hospitality, and you are calling me ‘my lady this’ and ‘my lady that.’ It makes me feel even worse.”
Lilith smiled. “All right…Rachel. You are very nice.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I, um, are you here to see, um…”
“Mr. Hobson? Yes. I am sorry to intrude, but I had something I wanted to tell him.”
“I’m afraid that he is out right now. He has been all afternoon. If you want to wait for him, you are welcome, but I don’t know when he will return.”
“If it would not be a bother to you,” Rachel said tentatively. “I would like to speak with him, but I don’t wish to impose on you.”
Lilith smiled. “It is no bother, I assure you. But, if you don’t mind, there are some things I have to attend to, um, next door. So if you are all right just sitting here…I will tell the maid to bring you some tea.”
“That is most kind of you,” Rachel assured her. “I shall be perfectly fine here.”
“Very well, then.” Lilith started toward the door, then turned and said to her, a little wonderingly, “You are not what I expected, my—I mean, Rachel.”
Rachel grinned, saying, “Did you expect me to be another Araminta?”
“Ara—oh! Michael’s sister! I have never met her, either.”
“She is your sister, too, is she not?” Rachel pointed out.
“Yes, I suppose so, but I, well, I do not really think of her—of either of them, really—as my siblings.”
“I can tell you without fear of contradiction that you would prefer not to make Araminta’s acquaintance,” Rachel assured her. “I often wish I had not.”
A laugh escaped Lilith at Rachel’s words. “I will not pine over it, then,” she replied gaily and left the room.
Rachel did not have to wait long. The maid had just brought her tea and she had barely begun to sip it when the front door closed and there came the sound of someone striding down the hall. Michael glanced into the drawing room and stopped abruptly, seeing Rachel sitting there.
“Rachel!” His eyebrows went up, and he hurried into the room. “Is something the matter? Where is Lilith?”
He did not even seem to notice, Rachel thought, that he had addressed her by her given name. For some reason, the sound of her name on his tongue warmed her. She stood up, aware that the world seemed suddenly brighter, warmer, more exciting. She smiled because she could not keep herself from doing so.
“Hello. Lilith is next door. She had something to do there. There is nothing the matter. I just came to tell you what I found out from Mrs. Birkshaw’s maid.”
“Oh! Oh, yes. I suppose I did not expect you to come up with anything so soon.”
“I was lucky,” Rachel admitted. “I was able to arrange a ‘chance’ meeting today.”
“Mmm. Sounds less like luck than good planning,” he replied.
“Perhaps a little of both.” Rachel was aware, with a combination of embarrassment and astonishment, that she wished very much at the moment that James would take her hand. Or kiss her again.
She turned aside, gesturing in the general direction of the teapot sitting on the tray. “Would you care for a cup of tea? The maid brought two cups.”
“Yes, that would be very pleasant, thank you.”
Rachel sat back down on the sofa and busied herself with the ritual of pouring tea. She could see the faint trembling of her hand as she handed him his cup. She hoped he did not notice it.
“What did you find out?” he asked, taking a sip of tea.
“That the maid saw nothing out of the ordinary in her death. She seemed to think it was an intestinal disorder. She said Mrs. Birkshaw was very sick, could keep nothing down.”
“Could be almost anything.”
“Yes. The girl seemed quite fond of her mistress. I think she would have been more outspoken about it if she had had any doubt that Mrs. Birkshaw’s death was natural. She said, as Mr. Birkshaw had told me, that he was not there when Mrs. Birkshaw first became ill but came home as soon as he learned of it. She seemed to hold him in the highest regard, too. She believed that they loved one another devotedly.”
Her companion raised one eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of reserve about that statement? Were they not devoted?”
“I believe that Mrs. Birkshaw loved him, and apparently he was good to her. From what he said to me, I do not think he loved her. He characterized their marriage as an arranged one.”
“He does not mourn his wife?”
“Now don’t get that look in your eyes,” Rachel said firmly. “He was fond of her, and both he and the maid certainly indicated that he was a good husband. But I do not think he loved her.” She sighed. “It seems rather sad, such an inequity of feeling.”
“Perhaps it is always so—the feelings of one side stronger than those of the other.”
Rachel looked at him. His eyes were so intent upon her face that she could almost feel their touch. “That would be even sadder, wouldn’t it?”
“Love is often unkind,” he said abruptly, turning aside to set down his cup, then rising to his feet. He began to pace about the room. “I chatted up one of Birkshaw’s footmen today. He, too, had no suspicions about the woman’s death. But he did say one interesting thing. One of the footmen quit his job three months ago and moved to London. My bloke saw him not long ago in a tavern. The fellow gave him his address, which he was happy to sell me. I asked him why the other footman left, and he said the man didn’t like living in York, as he was from London originally. He’d worked for them for only six months—three months before Mrs. Birkshaw’s death.”
“And he left the Birkshaw residence about three months after her death?”
“Yes.” He turned and looked Rachel in the eyes. “Even more interesting, this footman carried Mrs. Birkshaw’s tray to her room after she grew ill.”
“Always?”
“Almost every single meal. It was not a task the others liked—climbing two flights of stairs carrying a heavy tray without spilling any of the soup in the bowl. And they had a fear of the sickroom. So this bloke was given the task. Once, when the butler gave the job to someone else, he offered to do it for them.”
“That is interesting. He would certainly have had the opportunity to poison Mrs. Birkshaw’s food, if in fact that is how she died.”
He nodded. “Yes, and he came and went rather conveniently.”
“But if this footman did in fact poison her, then surely it would mean that someone else paid him to do so.”
He nodded. “In all likelihood the poor woman’s husband.”
“It was not Anthony,” Rachel said flatly. “Why do you assume it was Anthony?”
“In murder, you look to who would benefit. In this case, the husband.”
“But why would he pay someone to do it when he could easily do it himself? He was right there in the same house.”
“Yes. But not the first week, when she became ill, if you will remember. It gave him something of an alibi. Of course, once he knew she was ill, he had to come home to play the part of the concerned husband.”