The Lost Bee (Singer Chronicles 1)

by LK Rigel

  “This is her favorite tree, you know,” Mama said.

  They set off, arm in arm. “I used to fancy you once belonged to the white lady’s retinue,” Susan said. “Then one day you fell in love with Papa and ran away from your fairy queen to be with him.”

  “I never regretted it, child,” Mama said, though unbearable longing on her face belied her words.

  Susan was long past believing in fairies or special trees, but the white lady’s tree had felt special enough last Sunday. Susan closed her eyes and recalled Morgan’s hard strength pressing against her. That’s where the magic was in this world. In love. In loving.

  “I might walk to the village after lunch,” Susan said.

  Morgan lived at the Leopard & Grape, the inn in Carleson Peak. There’d be no harm if she happened to be in the square when the coach came in. No harm if they both happened to stop at Mr. Davies’s shop to inquire whether an ordered book was in the last shipment. No harm if their hands met reaching for the same volume on a shelf in the dark corner. They’d already done so much more.

  “I will,” she said again. “I’ll go to the village later.”

  “You won’t find the white lady there.” Mama chuckled as if she’d told a wonderful joke, and Susan joined in the laugh for the joy of it.

  She was in love!

  She loved Morgan Baker for his impudence—and his brilliance and his ambition and his industriousness. He wasn’t a gentleman, but did it matter? He was a brilliant engineer with the audacity to improve his position through study and hard work. Things were changing in the world. Good character meant as much as good lineage.

  Everything was almost wonderful, and it would be completely wonderful once Papa was won over to the union.

  At the cottage, the front door flew open and Fisher rushed into the courtyard after her charge. She was as thin as Mama, but they were an opposite-looking pair. Fisher was all somber wiry strength with her black hair and eyebrows and her plain dark dress. Mama was an airy will-o’-the-wisp, the white fluff of a dandelion that might fly away on a breeze.

  As Fisher took Mama’s arm, Papa’s curricle—well, the one he used from Millam Hall—pulled up to the front door, but he wasn’t with the rig. Instead a footman handed Susan a note from the Marquess of Millam, the duke’s son. Miss Susan Gray’s presence was requested at the hall.

  Susan frowned. She was never invited to Millam Hall. “Has my…” She glanced at Mama and lowered her voice. “Has someone been injured?”

  “Not that I know of, miss,” the footman said. “But his lordship wanted me to say it is urgent.”

  The hall was a mere quarter mile walk, but after the search through the woods Susan was glad for the ride. She was left in the library where she found a copy of the very Rousseau she and Morgan and Papa had recently discussed—and in French too. She made herself comfortable in a chair by the fire and opened the book on her lap, recalling their last conversation.

  Ironically Papa, the gentleman, sympathized with Rousseau’s radical ideas about natural men while Morgan had so passionately defended the trappings of civilization. People never value what they have as highly as what they want, and Morgan wanted desperately to be accepted among the gentry.

  Susan admired his passion. He felt deeply about so many things, including her. She smiled about her secret and fell into reading. She’d gone through two chapters when she was pulled away from Rousseau by a dog’s bark outside the room. The door opened, and a maid brought in tea.

  Lord Millam appeared soon after the maid, and as Susan rose from her chair the distracted servant knocked over a cup, erupted in tears, and fled the room. Millie barely registered the outburst, but he was known as a kind man. All of Gohrumshire expected he’d be a more benevolent duke than his father.

  He was near Papa’s age and quite as handsome, medium height and slender, not thin. He had brown hair and a clear complexion and sad hazel eyes. His wife and child had died of fever years ago. Perhaps that’s what made Millie aware of the sorrows of others.

  It was wrong to think of the marquess as Millie, but that’s what Papa called him.

  “My dear Miss Gray.” He stared into the fire. Something was wrong. He most certainly avoided looking at her. “Please sit down.”

  Despite the fire a chill shot through her bones, and she remained standing. Her papa was hurt after all; she felt it. For weeks he’d worried about the boat lift, and Morgan’s errand had been undertaken too late.

  “You must prepare yourself.”

  She hadn’t noticed before, but Millie’s eyes were swollen and red.

  “If you please, my lord, just say the words. I can imagine far worse than the reality.”

  “I am so sorry, Miss Gray. Little more than an hour ago, your father and mine were both found dead at the canal.”

  Killers Murder More Than Men

  Someone cried out. Was it Susan's voice? It was so far away. The world pressed in on her, crushing her lungs. Millie’s lips were moving, but no words came out.

  With a loud crack from a log on the fire, the world popped out again, sharp and clear. Millie’s shadow flickered against the wall. He seemed to expect her to faint, but she only sank into the chair.

  “How?” She’d meant to ask if the lift mechanism had failed after all, but she couldn’t speak a complete sentence.

  “Murdered.”

  She gripped the chair’s carved wood arms. Susan. Papa’s voice sounded in her head: Be useful as well as ornamental. Use! Ornament! Both were beyond her. She could barely draw breath.

  Millie sat down beside her. He ran a hand through his brown hair and stared into the fire. “One believes there’s an abundance of days, unending. One follows upon another, stretched out to a far, far distant end.”

  Susan made herself stand and pour out tea, as if going through the motions of a normal, mundane act would make everything normal and mundane again.

  The marquess—no. The duke accepted the cup with a bewildered expression. “Long ago when I looked into that distance, my wife was there with our son. Then they were gone, so sudden. Through everything my father, his grace, was there. He’s so—he was so unyielding. It never occurred to me he could yield to death.”

  “I understand,” Susan said, thinking of Papa. How could a man so solid, so true and good, die? “Where is he?” It didn’t make sense. “Where’s my father?” She had to see him or her brain wouldn’t accept it.

  “The men are searching for the fiends who did this foul deed. I sent two groomsmen with the dog cart to bring the…the bodies, but they should be a while yet.”

  If the entire estate had been rallied to the search—Good lord. Mama. “I must go. I must get home before...” Before her mama heard from someone else and slipped into madness completely.

  “Of course. And your family must stay at the cottage until you can make arrangements.”

  Arrangements. Yes. Reality fell like a sudden downpour. Everything had changed. The murderers had killed more than her papa. The Grays no longer had a claim on Millam Cottage.

  “You are very kind, my lord. I mean your grace.”

  The duke’s bottom lip quivered and a tear rolled down his cheek. Poor Millie. His wife and son had died of fever. He was alone. At least Susan had Mama and her brother—and Morgan.

  Thank God for Morgan. She remembered to curtsy and left Millie staring into the fire.

  The servants at Millam Cottage all knew of the outrage, but luckily Fisher was reluctant to inform Mama.

  “She’s resting so nicely, miss.” The maid was pale and shaken. “I didn’t like to disturb her.”

  “Quite right, Fisher. Don’t let anyone see her, and tell me when she awakes.”

  Susan went to her room and took out her wooden writing desk, the finest thing Papa had ever brought her. It was made by a Bath artisan from Brazilian rosewood, decorated with carvings of Minerva, her sacred owl, her helmet and shield. Its hardware was polished brass, and Susan wore its brass key around her neck always
.

  She sent a quick note to Morgan at the inn. She shouldn’t write to him as they weren’t formally engaged, but that hardly mattered now. She hoped his coach would arrive on time.

  Next, she wrote to little John’s headmaster. She hoped he would be kind in how he broke the news to her brother, but John would have to leave school—for now, anyway.

  Her next task was more daunting. She must write to her grandfather at Grayside in the north to tell him he had lost his only son. She’d met her relatives but once thirteen years ago before little John was born, just before Papa began work on the Millam canal.

  My dear Grandfather…

  With great sorrow I write to inform you that my wonderful father, your son John Gray, has died.

  The Grays were aghast at her parents’ marriage, and the visit had not gone well. Susan had liked her grandfather well enough. There were two cousins, a nasty older boy and a timid little girl near Susan’s age. The cousin’s papa was horrible. He said awful things about Mama. Susan had felt sorry for her cousin Lizzie, despite her grand house and fine clothes.

  The estrangement seemed so trivial now. Lizzie would be nineteen, maybe married. Perhaps Susan and Morgan could visit Lizzie and her husband on their wedding trip and establish a friendship.

  She listed her father’s achievements.

  I assure you, Grandfather, that your son was admired in the county and loved by all who knew him. I hope in some small way this mitigates the pain you must feel as deeply as I,

  Your loving granddaughter,

  Susan Gray.

  Perhaps that would make him more eager to see young John, now his heir. He’d lost his chance of reconciliation with the son. Now he could get to know his grandson. John and Mama would go to live at Grayside for a time, and then John would attend a school closer to his new home. Susan’s uncle by marriage would have to accept it.

  At least that was one thing she could be glad of. John spent far too much time with the tenant farmers of Millam.

  She closed up the ink with a twinge of guilt. She should be remembering Papa, not planning John’s future, but there was nothing she could do about the former. Be useful as well as ornamental, Papa always said. This was her being of use. John would be a gentleman. He should learn how to act like one. He should get to know the estate that was now his.

  It was strange to be thinking of wedding trips, of renewing an acquaintance with her cousin, and now of John going to a proper school and Mama comfortable at Grayside. In a way, Papa’s death had set Susan free.

  ***

  Morgan didn’t come to the cottage that evening or the next day, and he didn’t answer her note. She saw him three days later at her father’s graveside. During the rector’s brief remarks, Morgan barely acknowledged her with an emotionless nod.

  Afterwards, he tipped his hat to Mama and started to turn away.

  “Mr. Baker.” Susan curtsied. Morgan’s curls fell forward, and she very nearly reached up to brush them out of his eyes. His coolness stopped her, and her stomach turned over.

  “Miss Gray.” He looked through her, as if his gaze had never found purchase in her soul. As if they were strangers to each other. He nodded to her brother. “John. My condolences on your tragic loss.”

  “Morgan.” Susan felt her face burn. But didn’t she have the right to speak his Christian name? “We’ve missed you the last few days.”

  “Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. There is much to do at the locks. Well.” He replaced his hat and nodded. “Goodbye.” He walked away.

  It made no sense. “Morgan!” She followed him, ignoring the stares and whispers from the gathered mourners. At the last gravestone, Morgan stopped, impatient. What was happening?

  “Miss Gray.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Is there some service I can render your poor family?”

  “What’s wrong, Morgan? Why did you not come to see me?”

  She followed his nervous glance to the navvies bunched together at the fresh grave, hats crushed in their work-worn hands and tears streaming down their faces. Mr. Davies from the bookshop stood not far away with the rector. They quickly looked away, embarrassed.

  Susan’s stomach turned again. They were embarrassed for her.

  “Mr. Baker.” All was lost, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You were going to speak to my father.”

  “But that’s all changed now, isn’t it? You have no father.”

  “What…Morgan, what are you saying?”

  “Nothing. We can have nothing to say to each other.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I’ve considered my position carefully. I was bewitched by your strange gray eyes. But now I’ve come to my senses. I’ll not degrade myself with a…”

  She steadied herself against the headstone.

  “I wish you no harm,” he said. “I mean to say nothing of what passed between us. But neither will I be dragged into the gutter.”

  With a lift in his step as if he’d battled a dragon and survived, he jumped into the curricle from Millam Hall, Papa’s curricle, and drove away.

  The next afternoon brought a reply to Susan’s letter to her grandfather, not written by the old gentleman but by her uncle. He sent no condolences, no words of comfort, no welcome to the new heir.

  My Dear Miss Gray,

  I can only imagine what your father must have told you, but let me assure you that your assumptions are quite misplaced. If there was ever a legal union between my wife’s brother, John Gray, and your unfortunate mother, I invite you to produce the proof.

  You will not find it.

  In short, as a bastard, your brother is heir to nothing.

  Furthermore, some few days before your letter arrived, I received correspondence from a Mr. Morgan Baker of Carleson Peak who begged to introduce himself and apprise me of our impending relationship through marriage. I was obliged to respond and make him aware of the circumstances of your birth, thus saving him from a most injurious connection.

  If you insist upon passing yourself off as a respectable member of this family, I must continue to expose the wretched truth. Do not write to me again, nor to any of the inhabitants of Grayside.

  In all sincerity,

  Mortimer Caversham

  Mama was of no use. She couldn’t remember the town where she and Papa were married or name the church where the banns were read.

  Susan’s pitiful little family, like cast-out angels, had fallen far from heaven. All was not lost. The new duke took an interest. He offered to find Susan a governess position, but she had to refuse. What if her uncle found her out and exposed her as a bastard? She couldn’t bear the humiliation.

  “I’ll think of something,” she told Millie.

  “There is a position at Gohrum House in London, first under-housekeeper,” he said. “Quite respectable, and it would ease my mind to know you were in a secure place.”

  Her pride screamed against it, but she forced herself to consider. Gohrum House was in St. James Square. London would be fascinating. She’d be a member of the upper staff, respected. In many grand houses, the housekeeper was related to the family. The truth was, she had nowhere else to go.

  “Thank you, your grace.” It was the only logical answer. “I am most grateful.”

  The duke placed young John with one of his tenant farmers at Millam. He said it was out of respect for John Gray, though Susan suspected his innate goodness was as much the cause. John was thrilled. He hated school. Now he’d learn farming and land management. He hoped to do well enough to one day to be land agent for the Gohrum properties.

  Susan found a place for Mama through Mr. Davies, the book seller, whose aunt in Bath let rooms to respectable old ladies. Again, the duke smoothed the way with a letter of introduction which resolved any doubts the aunt had about Mrs. Gray’s quirks.

  When Susan departed for London, John drove her down to Carleson Peak in the dogcart and left her to wait at the Leopard & Grape for the mail coach. Squire Carleson was waiting there for someone
arriving on the coach, and he offered Susan his condolences. He was a vulgar old man who reeked of tobacco. He meant to be kind, but she felt both mental and physical relief when the coach arrived and he hurried away to greet his visitor.

  While the driver loaded Susan’s trunk, she found a place inside between a tiny bespectacled older gentleman and a fat young cleric who didn’t remove his nuisance of a hat. She had a clear view of the inn door not six feet away when Morgan Baker stepped out into the street.

  “Good morning, Mr. Baker.” Susan recognized the bookseller’s voice. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Yes, Mr. Davies,” Morgan said. “The new Duke of Gohrum has asked me to take on the duties of poor Mr. Gray.”

  “And will you be leaving the Leopard & Grape?”

  “I will indeed, Mr. Davies. His grace has invited me to take Millam Cottage.”

  The horses startled and the coach lurched forward, drawing Morgan’s attention. His eyes met Susan’s, but again he looked straight through her as if she wasn’t there. As if she had never been there.

  Gohrum House

  Three years later, 1799 London

  Matthew Peter reached the end of the hall with a light heart. Every day at Gohrum House was a good day, today better than most. He was tempted to fly down the stairs by threes. But of course he’d be seen, and he didn’t want to bring grief to his father.

  “We must set the example, son,” Mr. Peter always said. He was butler of Gohrum House, the highest position in the Duke of Gohrum’s London household, a position Matthew Peter would hold one day. Matthew Peter was bound to act with proper decorum.

  But Miss Gray made it difficult. In the hall just now, she’d smiled at him. He sighed at the memory and shifted the silver tray he carried to one hand, tucking it under his arm. He took the stairs down to the kitchen one by one.