by C. J. Archer
"Hear him out," Eastbrooke said.
Gillingham nodded his thanks at the general. "I know how women work, particularly women of her ilk."
"There is no ilk where Charlie is concerned," Lincoln said in that quiet, commanding voice of his.
The general shook his head sadly. "And you tell us you have no feelings for her," he muttered. "It is quite obvious that you do."
My heart lifted, and I frowned at Lincoln, trying to determine if there was any truth in the general's observations. But he merely scowled harder than I'd ever seen him scowl.
He strode to the door. "Good day, gentlemen."
The general shook his head sadly and followed, but Gillingham remained where he was. "Good lord, use your head, man! You must see that she has far too much power over you now."
"All I see is a man who is not listening to a thing I'm saying. Get out of my house before I throw you out."
Gillingham stalked past Lincoln, his walking stick barely hitting the floor. "This is not over."
Lincoln followed the two men, and I slipped through the far door that led to the unused music room to avoid him. In something of a daze, I made my way outside, desperate to escape the house. And Lincoln.
I needed a few moments alone to think. I ruled out hiding in the orchard. Autumn had stripped the trees of coverage, and he would look there first. The stables were now quiet except for horses munching on their feed. Seth and Gus had finished their duties. I climbed the ladder to the loft and picked my way past a rusty wheel, some tools, and a cracked leather saddle, to the bags of feed piled into a pyramid. I sat with my back to them and swiped at the tears dampening my cheeks, willing myself to stop being a pathetic fool.
But I couldn't dislodge the memory of Lincoln's face as he denied General Eastbrooke's accusation most vehemently. It had been one of stone-cold fury. If ever I needed proof that he had no feelings for me, that look was it. And, of course, his denial. Our kiss had merely been a heat-of-the-moment thing, hastily done and just as quickly forgotten. Eastbrooke had been wrong. Lincoln wasn't in love with me.
I didn't want to rejoin the household and face him just yet, so I stretched out my legs and rested my head against the rough calico. It smelled of oats and horse, a surprisingly comforting smell that lulled me.
I sat forward as I heard footsteps pause near the door before moving closer. The top of the ladder shook with the weight of someone climbing it.
I wasn't surprised to see Lincoln's unruly, dark hair appear. He remained on the ladder and regarded me through eyes still dark with the remnants of his anger. "This looks more comfortable than the orchard."
"How did you find me?"
He tilted his head to the side and regarded me with an arched brow.
"Oh. Yes, of course. I suppose I'll never truly be able to escape you." It was meant as a joke to lighten the mood, but his face fell.
"I know I'm not the easiest person to work for, but I hope you don't wish to escape me altogether."
"That's not what I meant. Of course I don't wish to go away. I'm happy here." I bit my lip to stop myself saying something that would make this moment even more awkward.
"I'm glad to hear it."
"But if the four committee members get their way…"
"Pay Gillingham and Eastbrooke no mind. I'm not going to banish you, and they have no power to force me. Not because of…that, anyway."
That? What was "that" precisely?
"You know how things lie between us, don't you?" he asked tentatively. "You understand my…position?"
"You made it very clear to me."
His eyes clouded at my snippy retort. "Then come inside. It's cold out here and your presence is missed."
By him or the others?
We crossed the courtyard together and headed into the house through the rear service doors. Seth and Gus were in the midst of recounting the events from the gypsy camp to Cook who listened with an amused smirk.
"We were lucky we got out of there with our lives," Gus said, shaking his head.
"You were lucky." Seth lounged in the corner armchair and propped his booted feet on a stool. "We were perfectly fine. Charlie, I saw you whispering with one of the snotty-nosed little brats before we left. What about?"
"He was not a brat, nor was his nose dirty," I said.
Seth waited for an answer with an expectant air. So did Lincoln. He stood by the door, his mild gaze on me, his hands behind his back.
"He acted as interpreter, that's all."
Lincoln continued to watch me. His lips parted and he drew in a small breath as if he were about to say something, but he must have thought better of it and closed his mouth again.
"For free?" Gus asked.
"I paid him with knowledge. I told him how to be a better thief."
"Charlie!" Seth threw his hands in the air and let them fall on the chair arms. "You can't go around doing that."
"He's only a little child. I would rather he escaped the clutches of the constables than wind up separated from his family…and worse."
"Then he should stop thieving altogether!"
I rolled my eyes as Lincoln retreated from the kitchen. I didn't know why I expected him to remain after he'd fetched me. We had nothing more to discuss for now. Our investigation had once more hit a dead end, and we were no closer to finding Buchanan. Perhaps he would come up with a plan of action if we were alone.
The afternoon wore on and I continued to perform the duties expected of me as a maid, since there was no one else to do so. Nor did I particularly mind. I would rather work than sit around and sew something I neither wanted nor needed. As I was helping Cook mix the bread dough at dusk, Seth came up to me with the chatelaine box.
"I forgot," he said. "I fetched this from your room when you first asked me, but I haven't returned it to Death yet. Are you sure you still want me to?"
I shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"
His mouth shifted from side to side. "What is your education in the classics like?"
"The classics? As in old books?"
"Ancient Greek and Roman myths."
"Non-existent. If it wasn't Christian, Anselm Holloway didn't want it in the house. If it wasn't in the house, I didn't learn it."
"That explains it then."
"Explains what?"
"Why Fitzroy gave this to you. He knew you wouldn't understand the meaning behind it."
"Show me," Cook said, looming over my shoulder.
Seth opened the lid and the silver chatelaine winked in the light from the lamps. My breath caught. I'd forgotten how pretty it was, and how finely worked. Perhaps I'd been too hasty in asking Seth to give it back to Lincoln. Hasty and cowardly. I ought to do it myself.
"He gave it to me because it's a practical gift for a housemaid," I told Seth.
Cook looked at me. "If he wanted practical he would of given you one made of tin, and plain. This ain't no practical gift."
"No indeed." Seth pointed to the figure of the woman looking out to sea from the balcony. "Do you see the dolphin?"
"Yes," I said, peering closer. "What of it?"
"And the vine? Also, she's holding a dove."
"I didn't know it was a dove. So?"
"So, this woman is Aphrodite, a Greek goddess."
"I see. Well, it's a pretty piece, if not a practical one. I suppose Fitzroy thought I might like it. But it's much too expensive for me to accept."
And yet parting with it suddenly seemed unnecessary. I wouldn't want to offend him by returning it. I held my hand out and Seth handed the box to me with a frown.
"What do you know about Aphrodite?" he asked.
"Nothing except what you just told me. That she is depicted in artwork with dolphins and doves. You're very clever to have worked that out. I thought she was just a fine figure."
"You really don't know anything about classical symbolism, do you?"
I snorted. "Stringer and the others weren't very well versed in Greek mythology. Most of them couldn't e
ven read."
"Put it on," Seth said before I could ask him what Aphrodite and her animals meant in Greek myth.
"Not sure that be wise," Cook said. "It be too good for kitchen work."
I hesitated only a moment then removed the chatelaine from its velvet bed. I pinned it to the waist of my skirt and let it hang loose against the dark gray fabric, where it looked even shinier.
Seth took the box from me. "When you get a chance, you ought to learn about the Greek gods and goddesses. They're very interesting."
"Not now," Cook cut in. "That dough won't mix itself."
Seth smirked. "I'll return the box to your room, if you like."
I thanked him and decided to investigate Lincoln's library for books on classical myths later.
* * *
Unfortunately, I had no opportunity for reading that night, as the men insisted I play cards with them. Lincoln didn't join us.
Early the following morning, we had two surprise visitors—Marguerite and her brother, Mr. Edgecombe. They refused to get out of the carriage, and it wasn't until I noticed the blanket over Edgecombe's lap that I remembered why. A man like him would find it an indignity to be carried where others could see.
"May Miss Holloway and I join you?" Lincoln asked instead.
Marguerite's gloved hand tightened on the window frame. Her mouth turned down. She did not look at me.
"Very well," Mr. Edgecombe said. Unlike his sister, he didn't know me as a maid, only as Lincoln's assistant. "Come sit by me, Miss Holloway. Unless my crippled state disgusts you."
"No, sir, it does not." I climbed into the spacious cabin. "But your manner sometimes does."
Marguerite gasped. "I beg your pardon! How dare you speak to my brother that way?"
But Edgecombe only chuckled. "She has reason to, Sister." He patted the seat beside him and I sat, careful that not even my skirts impinged on his space.
Lincoln settled opposite, his knees touching mine. "I didn't think you left the house, these days, Edgecombe."
Edgecombe turned a sour gaze onto Lincoln. "You try getting in and out of carriages, up and down stairs, without the use of your bloody legs."
"John, really, do you have to embarrass me like this?" Marguerite muttered.
Edgecombe's brows shot up his forehead. "Embarrass you? My dear sister, I came all this way to London, exposing myself to ridicule if any of my old chums see me, and you accuse me of embarrassing you? You don't even know what embarrassing is until you can't perform in the bedroom like you used to."
Marguerite's face flushed scarlet.
Edgecombe reached under the seat, opened the storage compartment and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He took a swig then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry, Fitzroy, but there's only enough for one."
"You came here for a reason," Lincoln said flatly. "It must be important."
"Ah, yes. I got to thinking about Buchanan after you left Emberly the other day. I'm quite sure he's dead."
Marguerite spluttered a short sob. Lincoln handed her a handkerchief and she held it to her nose.
"He's not," I said.
Lincoln gave his head a slight shake. "We don't think so."
"Buck up, Sis." Edgecombe took another swig from the bottle. "She's upset, you see, because she's still in love with her brother-in-law."
"John! That is not true. This is an indignity and I cannot bear it. I will not."
He rolled his eyes. "It's obvious to a blind man."
Marguerite blinked wet eyes and sank into the corner.
"Why do you think he's dead?" Lincoln asked.
"Because where could he be if he isn't pushing up daisies? I had my man Dawkins ask in the village, after you departed, and no one there had seen him. When I arrived at Harcourt House last night, my sister confirmed that Donald admitted to fighting with his brother at Emberly. So we know he was there, but never made it back to the village."
"He might have gone to a different village for the night."
"But we know he never made it home to London! God, man, you're supposed to be some sort of inquiry agent, yet you're not looking at the evidence. The last person to see Buchanan alive was the man he fought. Donald."
Marguerite placed her hands over her ears and screwed her eyes shut. She was close to falling apart.
"My sister doesn't like to think that her husband killed the man she loves."
Marguerite began to hum, as if she were trying to drown out her brother's words. I eyed Lincoln and lifted one shoulder in a "what-shall-we-do" gesture. He simply gave his head another half-shake.
"Harcourt doesn't strike me as the sort of fellow who would kill his own brother," Lincoln said.
"Why not?" Edgecombe sneered. "He put his own wife in Bedlam."
Marguerite's humming grew louder, and she gently rocked back and forth. I laid my hand on her knee but she jerked violently, and I recoiled.
Edgecombe laughed, a bitter, brittle sound that grated on my nerves. "He had her admitted to the asylum a few months after the baby's birth. She was still very affected by Hector's death, and she wasn't showing signs of recovery." He nodded at the humming, rocking figure of his sister, opposite. "She was much like this, as it happens."
"Her own husband," I said quietly. Poor Marguerite.
"She hasn't been the same since." Edgecombe shook his shoulders, as if shaking off the memories. "So you see why I suspect him, don't you? A man capable of such a callous action toward his wife is surely capable of killing his brother out of jealousy."
"Jealousy?" Lincoln asked.
"Of course. Jealous that his wife loved his brother more. Jealous that Andrew could father a child, while he cannot."
"My lady," I said loudly, to penetrate Marguerite's fog. "Do you think your husband killed Mr. Buchanan?"
Her rocking became more furious. She slammed back into the seat so hard the entire cabin vibrated. She must have heard me but she didn't answer.
"She came along to speak to you without informing him," Edgecombe drawled. "And she wouldn't be behaving like that if she thought him innocent." He leaned forward and handed her the bottle. "Take this, Margie. It'll calm your nerves."
She shook her head.
"Perhaps a cup of tea," I said.
She screwed her hands into her skirts and nodded.
"My man Dawkins will help you." Edgecombe thumped the ceiling, and his sister jumped. "Dawkins! Assist Miss Holloway." To us he added, "He's not as good as my previous fellow, but he should be able to manage a few teacups."
I was about to protest when I decided it might be a good opportunity to speak to him. Sometimes servants knew more about the goings-on in a house than their masters.
Dawkins was a stocky fellow with a thick chest and arms that would come in useful when carrying Edgecombe up and down stairs. Despite a heavy brow which shadowed small eyes, he had a rather mischievous mouth that curved up in a smile as he introduced himself to me while we walked.
"Couldn't get out of there fast enough, eh?" he asked as we climbed the front steps.
"The meeting is not quite going as expected."
"Let me guess." He held the door open for me. "Edgecombe's calling his sister names and she's shrinking into the corner so's she can get as far away from him as possible. That's how it generally goes at Emberly. I don't expect it to be much different in London."
"That sounds like an unpleasant household."
"It ain't a picnic. Between the mad toffs and the arse licking butler, it's a wonder any of the servants stay."
"Why do you?"
"I only just started and the wages are good. Very good. Prob'ly because no one else'll do what I do." He laughed an easy laugh that lifted his ponderous features. "It ain't much of a lark taking care of Edgecombe."
We headed into the kitchen where only Cook greeted us. Seth and Gus were elsewhere, running errands for Lincoln. I introduced them then we set about preparing the tea.
"What do you know about Lord Harcourt's missing
brother?" I asked Dawkins.
He shrugged. "Never met him. He went missing before I started with Edgecombe."
"Have you heard any rumors?"
"Only that he's missing, maybe dead, after he visited Emberly. I hear he's got an eye for the lassies. The maids are all crying into their aprons and her ladyship's fretting."
"What about Lord Harcourt? Does he seem worried to you?"
"Don't know. I only just met him afore he left for London."
"What about Mr. Edgecombe? How does he seem to you?"
"Bloody-minded, angry and drunk. He's a task master, that one. Always yelling at me to carry him here, push him there, fetch this, do that, and calling me names too. If he weren't paying this good, I'd leave him outside in the rain."
Cook handed me the teapot. "I'd be bad tempered too, if I couldn't use me legs."
"Ain't no excuse to be a curmudgeon, in my book. Only time I get peace is when he's asleep. Thank God and Dr. Turcott for the sleeping draft. Knocks him right out, as good as dead."
We returned to the carriage and handed out cups of tea. Mr. Edgecombe refused, holding up his bottle, until I snatched it off him.
"Tea is better for the body and soul," I told him.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "You're worse than Harcourt and Yardly combined." Nevertheless, he took the cup and eyed his sister over the rim as he sipped.
Marguerite seemed more composed, although the remnants of her hysteria were still visible in the tear stains on her cheeks. In my absence, they had been discussing the possibility of Harcourt having killed his brother and burying the body somewhere on the estate. Edgecombe was suggesting possible spots. While Marguerite didn't meet anyone's gaze, she seemed resigned to the fact that her husband was the main suspect in her past lover's disappearance. Put like that, I wasn't surprised that she felt somewhat fragile.
"So, what happens now?" Edgecombe asked Lincoln. "Will you confront Harcourt today?"
"No," Lincoln said.
"What? Why not?"
"While your own suspicion is new, you haven't presented me with new evidence. You've told me nothing I haven't already considered. I can't accuse Lord Harcourt of murder, when it's quite possible that no crime has been committed and Buchanan will turn up alive."