Pemberley scratched at Tabitha’s tummy. Yes, murdered, rather. At least some of them.
The Countess smiled an awkwardly large smile, a bit of lipstick clinging to one of her front teeth. “So it’s happy news. For one of you, at least. You’ll come and have visits with me to make up for all the lost years, and you’ll come into the lovely trust fund.”
“And just how lovely is the trust fund?” asked Barnaby, wincing once again and glaring at his mother.
The Countess ignored him and dinged her glass repeatedly with a fork. “Cook! The champagne!”
Cook burst from the service entrance with a tray and gave every parent a flute of champagne and every child a tiny sherry glass full of bubbly drink.
“It’s one hundred thousand pounds, loves.” The Countess lifted her flute. “Cheers!”
“One hundred thou—” Mr. Trundle coughed and snorted, and Barnaby stared at the Countess with rapt attention. The Applebys and Dales and Herringbones exchanged impressed glances. Even Viola, Tabitha noticed, was transfixed by so large a sum of money, much larger than any donation she’d ticked off on her fingers thus far.
Frances raised a hand. “One hundred thousand pounds. Are you perfectly serious?” She looked between her mother and father, considering them. “And when will I be visiting next?” She pasted an angelic smile below her eager eyes. “Pardon, but it is me, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, dear. Otherwise I wouldn’t have invited all of you, would I?” The Countess looked among the adults. “Let’s be quite open and honest, parents. You must have been given some sort of special knowledge about the origin of your son or daughter.”
The parents exchanged puzzled glances, but no confession was made.
“No? Well, I’ll give you some time to think about it, and then you can pass along any personal recollections to your children. Please do share everything with your child. For their sake. And for the sake of one hundred thousand pounds. I shall interview each child tomorrow, and we’ll see what comes of it. For now, I’ll just say once again how happy you’ve all made me by coming and being part of this blessed reunion!”
The Countess ordered another round of celebratory beverages to be poured. Everyone toasted and clinked and soon became rosy-cheeked with the wonder of the situation and the pondering of life possibilities that could be bought with an extra hundred thousand in one’s pocketbook.
“One chance in six, then,” Mr. Trundle quipped. “I like those odds. Barnaby would thrive here, and we could get by without him quite easily for the summer. Or longer if you’d like.” Mr. Trundle either ignored or didn’t see Barnaby’s hurt expression. “But how will you know the right child for certain?” he asked the Countess, his expression more curious than concerned.
Yes, how will she know?
The Countess set her drink down carefully. “Obviously there will be some knowledge that the orphanage gave to the rightful heir’s parents—a description of the mother and father that I might recognize, a story about their past that links the birth parents to Hollingsworth Hall, a token of some sort. And dear Mary will be assisting me to ensure that the correct heir is claimed.”
Mr. Crum snorted. “I doubt that a strokey maid would be able to identify much at all.”
Frances wrinkled her nose in Mary’s direction. “And I doubt that she could judge which of us has countess blood.” She straightened her posture and smiled. “Besides, I should think it rather obvious who your heir is, Grandmother.” She glanced at Tabitha, Viola, Barnaby, and Edward. “Or at least to rule out who it isn’t.”
“Not really a matter of ‘countess’ blood, is it? She wasn’t born with a title,” Edward pointed out.
Yes, that’s true. I do wonder at her history previous to her arrival at Hollingsworth Hall.
“Mary Pettigrew,” the Countess stated firmly, “has seen the child as an infant and knew my Thomas well. And Mary was well acquainted with the woman my son ran away with, which I was not.” She smiled at the maid. “Low class being acquainted with low class, and all that. I shall include her in the interview sessions to gauge her response to faces and such. Rest assured, by the end of the weekend, I will have a grandchild. Isn’t it exciting?”
“To be perfectly clear, you’ve never seen this child?” Mr. Wellington asked. “And Basil House didn’t keep records of who dropped off which baby?”
The Countess sifted through the first file and frowned at the paperwork. “Of course they kept records, but being an orphanage, there were times when children were simply left at the doorstep. That was the case for all the children here. So no, there are no formal records, other than drop-off dates.”
“There’s just one thing, Your Ladyship,” Mrs. Appleby said delicately. “I don’t know that you can just claim one of our children as a grandchild and demand extended visits.”
“You can claim Barnaby,” Mr. Trundle said eagerly. “You’ll get no resistance from us.”
Lines of pressure formed around the Countess’s mouth. She inhaled deeply, plucking her bag from the floor. “Everyone please calm down. I am a patroness of England, titled by my good friend, the King. Surely that’s enough of a character reference.”
Tabitha wondered how good of a friend King Edward could be to the Countess, and whether he knew that she kept knives on her person at all times.
“But why didn’t anyone tell us we were adopted?” Viola asked.
Mrs. Dale squeezed Viola’s hand and looked at the other mothers with empathy. “I’m sure that some of you know the pain of not being able to carry a child. There’s no shame in not wanting the whole world to know your business.”
Mrs. Appleby nodded and reached for her husband’s hand. “We went to the Continent for a year,” she said quietly. “Lawrence came back to get Oliver and then we stayed in Europe until our boy was one. Not a soul except the woman at Basil House knew he wasn’t ours.” She cleared her throat. “But he is ours now, and we’ll need more time getting to know you before Oliver is left here for an entire summer.”
Mrs. Herringbone raised a hand. “I’m sorry, Your Ladyship, but I agree with the Applebys.” She turned to Edward and squeezed his hand. “Oh, my dear boy,” she said, gesturing to the Dales. “Our best friends in the world adopted a child at Basil House and suggested we do the same. We wanted you and Viola to grow up together, so we picked children of similar age. And we didn’t tell either of you about the adoption because there can be a silly stigma associated with that sort of thing and it really doesn’t matter. You are my son, Edward.”
The Countess fiddled with the stays on her handbag and gave an odd chirped laugh. “Oh, let’s all just relax! Details can be worked out on Sunday. I’m a flexible woman, and I’m sure we’ll all end up with exactly what we want. Cook! Dessert!” She smiled once more. “This is a celebration.”
“She’s right,” Mr. Appleby said, patting his wife on the hand and nodding at Oliver. “We seem to have forgotten our manners, Your Ladyship.” He stood and raised his champagne. “Glasses up once more, everyone.” He waited for the room to follow suit. “To the Countess of Windermere!”
The room echoed him.
“To one hundred thousand pounds!” cried Mrs. Trundle.
Agnes walked in with a tray of gorgeous raspberry tortes, fruit sorbet, and pistachio ice. The Countess mingled among the parents and children, touching arms and patting heads, and once more the dining room became an enchanted place.
Tabitha looked at her parents, who were deep in discussion, with no indication that they needed her consultation. They, unlike the others, had not worn expressions of hesitant giddiness at any point during the trust fund announcement, which probably meant one thing: the Crums were absolutely certain that they wouldn’t be coming into any money.
“I’ll just visit the loo,” she told them, leaving the room humming with excited, tense whispers behind her. She heard a small whisper of her own. It called to her faintly from somewhere between her heart and her mind.
>
There are far worse things than no longer having a family.
“Why, Pemberley,” she whispered, drawing the mouse from her pocket, “wouldn’t they ever have taken one from Basil House?”
Tabitha knew any thought of earning her parents’ love was slim, but still she had tried. She had tried very hard. And buried far beneath her need to be part of a family, her desire to be loved, and her frustration at not being able to earn that love, was another feeling that she couldn’t quite place. It sent hot bursts of blood from her heart to her toes and fingertips. The rogue feeling threatened to rush out and show itself in an uncontrolled manner, but Tabitha took a deep breath and made a logical and concerted effort to push all emotions aside.
A proper Inspector had no room for feelings. Tabitha had no inkling of being anything special and doubted she was related to the Countess, but if nothing else, she might use the time with her parents to discover why, exactly, she had been adopted by two people who seemed to shun the very idea of children. That was a mystery she’d like to solve.
If you want to know the true personality of a person, Tibbs, never go by how they treat you. Go by how they treat the butler and the maid. In every single case, whether the crime took place in a palace or a pauper’s alley box, by God, find yourself a maid to speak with.
—Inspector Percival Pensive,
The Case of the Loitering Lord
Tabitha patted her hands dry on a lavender towel. “It’s a lovely home,” she told Pemberley, in what she hoped was a soothing sort of voice. She sensed that her mouse friend was feeling a bit apprehensive about the coming chat with the Crums and that he could use a burst of possibility. “And a grandmother is family. Perhaps I’m actually a lost DeMoss, and that’s why my life has seemed like a dress that I simply can’t fit into properly. Perhaps I’m to inherit a trust fund and I can buy you a cheese palace and—”
Squeakity-squeak.
“Yes, well, as I was saying to myself earlier, if that’s the way of things, then perhaps I can clean floors here instead of at Augustus Home. Let’s go.”
The electric lighting in the hallway made Tabitha feel shadowed as they walked hesitantly down the carpet, passing more evidence of the wealth that would soon be shared by one of the children. Silver-framed paintings and gold-set mirrors crowded the walls, making it seem as though the manor was about to close tightly upon them, like a clever plant that had trapped a missing jewel in a Pensive novel Tabitha had read.
When she returned to the dining hall, it was empty, save for Mary Pettigrew and a server taking the uneaten desserts away. Mary did not look well. Slumping forward against the table, her eyes faced the painting on the opposite wall. Tabitha got the impression that Mary was far away, looking at a much different picture in her mind. The server looked up at Tabitha’s footsteps.
“Is someone coming to get Mary?” Tabitha asked.
The server blushed. “I would think so, miss. The others have gone to the drawing room or the library or the foyer.”
Sure enough, Tabitha found tight circles of parents and children scattered from the large entrance hall to the expansive library and the drawing room. The Trundles were grouped near a suit of armor, Mr. Trundle’s hand gripping Barnaby’s shoulder as he whispered with intensity. Mr. Wellington was just visible near the doorway of the drawing room, puffing at a thick, deep-brown cigar.
Tabitha wandered until she saw Mr. and Mrs. Crum at the base of the main staircase. They were quite huddled together, and there was a decided look about them as she approached.
“Mum. Daddy.”
They turned and glared at her in unison. When it was clear that neither of her parents would be starting a conversation, Tabitha took a deep breath. According to Inspector Pensive, it was common sense that whenever you were in a fix or at a crossroads in an investigation, there were always two choices: to do nothing and worry, or to take some sort of action and deal with its associated risks.
“I don’t know if you’ve anything to tell me,” she began softly. She paused, wondering whether to clarify her meaning by adding other than why you decided to abandon me and poor, sensitive Pemberley to an orphanage. Or why you adopted me in the first place if you were just going to throw me away. “But I am to be called into the Countess’s study tomorrow. Is there anything you remember about the day you got me from Basil House? Anything at all?”
“What’s to remember?” Mrs. Crum said. “The only thing that chafes my memory is that you had a frightful shriek and I couldn’t get you to shut up and you gave your father an insufferable headache.”
Mr. Crum nodded. “An ingrate from the start.”
As a small child, Tabitha had thought ingrate was a pet name. A loving term. She’d known better since checking at the library several years ago. Ingrate meant that she was ungrateful. A self-seeker. Thankless. It was seeing those words in an official book that cemented Tabitha’s belief that perhaps she was at fault somehow in the mysterious case of her parents not loving her.
Mr. Crum harrumphed loudly. “And it seems that you still can’t keep your gob shut. Now you’re badgering us with preposterous questions.” He threw a piece of paper at her.
Tabitha picked it up. “A train ticket?”
“Yes, after this weekend you can find your own way back to the station and that will take you to a stop within a few miles of Augustus Home. You’ll walk there.” Mr. Crum shook a single finger at her, then ran his hand carefully through his toupee. He bent over, leaning close while his eyes looked somewhere beyond Tabitha. “I can’t believe we delayed our trip for this rubbish. We’ve stuck our necks out for you on the chance that we’d get something out of this weekend. It was supposed to be profitable, and now it seems the payoff comes with a ridiculous condition.”
Mrs. Crum snorted her agreement. “Ridiculous. Hopeless, even. Imagine Tabitha being related to a countess.” She looked at Mr. Crum. “Teacher, wasn’t it?”
Tabitha stiffened. “What?”
“A teacher,” Mrs. Crum repeated. “The orphanage said the note left with you indicated that your mother was training to be a schoolteacher or some such rubbish. Not a maid. And there was no mention of a father, so no, you are not anybody’s heir, nor have you ever been.” She gritted her teeth. “You’ve been nothing but a waste of time.”
Tabitha felt Pemberley shift inside her apron pocket. Inspector Pensive was always brave in front of Tibbs, even if he later confessed to not feeling quite as valiant as his actions had suggested at the time. “Perhaps you’re wrong and the orphanage was mistaken,” Tabitha said very quietly, issuing the challenge for her mouse’s sake. “Perhaps she is my grandmother.”
“You? Come from gentility and money?” Mr. Crum’s outstretched index finger returned, this time to poke her in the chest. He leaned forward until Tabitha smelled a combination of onion, fish, and raspberry torte. “The only thing that came with you was the blanket you were wrapped in and the promise that you had a beautiful mother. We thought we’d get into some money by marrying you off for your looks to some fool of a rich boy.”
Mrs. Crum nodded. “Men are idiots and will fall in love with anything pretty. My own mother rose from a poverty too heinous to tell us much about, and how? By marrying up. And if I hadn’t fallen in love with you, Mortimer, I could have married a prince before the strains of motherhood aged me prematurely.”
“Too right, darling,” Mr. Crum lovingly agreed, “you deserve the world.” He sniffed as though he smelled something foul and grunted at his daughter. “That’s the only reason we picked you, Tabitha. We had a solid plan based on you being a beauty. But what a joke that turned out to be. The orphanage woman probably said that about all the wretched babies.”
Tabitha stumbled back as though she’d been slapped. “Well,” she replied, cheeks aflame, “the haircut certainly hasn’t done me any favors.”
Mrs. Crum shook her head miserably. “I was going to let it grow out when you came of age. I didn’t want you catching any boy’s eye
too early. And now . . .” She blew her nose, unable to continue. “Oh, Mortimer, now I’ll never be an upper-class member of London society!”
Mr. Crum gently stroked his wife’s arm. “There, there.” He finger-brushed his mustache and breathed in, then let out a pained sigh. “We don’t need London, dearest. On with the plan, I say.”
Tabitha looked between them, the two people who had plucked her from a life without parents. At least Mrs. Crum had the decency to look disturbed, but that turned out to be because Tabitha was standing on a bit of her foot. “Do get off, Tabitha.”
“I’m sorry,” Tabitha whispered. The apology sounded very far away even to herself, like the voice of a very small person stuck at the top of a very large mountain. Like a person who wasn’t sure how she’d gotten stuck in the first place and whether Fate was to blame for the unfortunate situation, or if being cold and alone was somehow secretly her own fault. She peered at each of her parents’ shoes in turn. “I’m very sorry I’m not what you intended.”
Mrs. Crum dabbed at her eye makeup. “Stop being difficult.”
Slowly, fingers trembling, Tabitha unpinned the bittern her mother had given her the day before. She carefully stroked the pin’s brass feathers in farewell and handed her mother the brooch, realizing it would be the final time they touched. Her parents would not be coming back after one year or two years or three. They were leaving forever. “I don’t know how things will work out on Sunday, but you can have the bittern back. It’s a symbol of leaving. I don’t believe I want it anymore.”
“How bizarre,” Mr. Crum muttered. “Get rid of that ugly thing.” He snatched it away from Tabitha and pitched it aside. The brooch went skittering across the foyer floor, passing through shadows and settling in some dark place.
Nooks & Crannies Page 8