“You said it yourself: Dobbs and Thomas. Tam no longer has a master. He is alone in that room with a young woman in the pangs of childbirth. What if something goes wrong? Who is he to call on for advice? What if the woman or the child were to die? Tam would be held accountable!”
“You should have more faith in the boy’s abilities,” Plantagenet Halsey grumbled sheepishly, knowing his nephew was in the right. “I do.”
“I have every faith in his abilities, Uncle.” Alec said with great patience. “It’s the unpredictability of childbirth that sets the hairs up on the back of my neck. Barr!” he ordered, turning to the proprietor who was deep in conversation with a servant, who had dashed up the staircase two steps at a time and was now pointing down the stairs into the foyer. “Barr!”
The proprietor waved the servant away and scurried across to Alec, trying to affect an air of solicitude as he mopped sweat from his brow. He quickly pocketed the damp handkerchief. “Yes, my lord. An altercation in the foyer requires my immed—”
“In a moment. Do you have a regular physician who calls on your guests when they are ill?”
“Yes, my lord. Dr. Ketteridge is most amiable and competent—”
“Send for him at once.”
“But, my lord, the guests…”
Alec coolly looked down at the proprietor, instantly closing Barr’s mouth, and cocked his head in direction of the gorilla-sized footman.
“There is another way to enter that apartment other than that used by guests. Ketteridge can be admitted via the servant door. Then I want you to place your most burly servant to guard that entrance from unwanted trespass. No one is to enter the Arch apartment without my permission. I will open the door to the physician.”
“A servant to guard the servant door. No one to enter without your permission. Your lordship will greet Dr. Ketteridge at the servant door. Yes, my lord. I will see to it at once. Please now excuse me,” the proprietor responded docilely, head bobbing up and down with every sentence uttered.
With a low sweeping bow and slumped shoulders Barr shuffled away.
He had spent the better part of two decades turning Barr’s of Trim Street into an exclusive lodging house, with only the most select clientele. Indeed he had under his roof that very day a Marquess, the nieces of a Duke, not to mention a widowed Viscountess of unimpeachable virtue, and now this: a woman of indeterminate marriageable status had gone into labor and would give birth to her questionable offspring in his establishment, and with Ketteridge called in to attend upon her, he would not be able to keep the event a secret. What member of Polite Society would want to stay at a lodging house that harbored pregnant women of dubious virtue? The situation was enough to send him scurrying for a headache powder, but another circumstance had developed that made the headache powder superfluous. He might as well put a pistol to his head and end his miserable life. He predicted that by nightfall half his guests would have departed. No establishment that he knew of ever recovered from a resident ghost.
A thud followed by a loud wail that was more from shock than pain drew Alec and his uncle along the corridor after Barr. A footman appeared beside his master having scampered up the stairs almost on all fours, out of breath and with his hair sticking up above his reddened left ear; it appeared his ear had been boxed.
The proprietor openly sighed.
“Sir! Mr. Barr, sir! Lady Rutherglen says she’s not interested in your nizy excuses.” He lowered his voice and as Hadrian Jeffries had done, cast his gaze right then left before returning to look at his master. “Her ladyship demands, yes that was the word she used, demands to be shown the-the ghost.” This last word was hissed out. “She then called you all sorts of names which I forget but I do remember one: Muckworm. Sir!”
Alec watched the proprietor flap his hands at the wide-eyed footman who, despite a reddened ear, was more concerned there was a ghost on the premises than being physically accosted by the reptilian Lady Rutherglen. With Barr out of sight, Alec turned to his uncle, who was looking puzzled, and briefly recounted what Hadrian Jeffries had told him about Sir Charles Weir’s melodramatic exit from Barr’s.
“And Weir was heard to pronounce that a ghost had come back to haunt us all,” the old man repeated, incredulous, “and then he burst into—into tears?”
“And not many hours later Lady Rutherglen descends upon Barr’s demanding to see this ghost. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“The woman is a menace and Weir a snivellin’ coward. I don’t know why you’re grinnin’!”
“I’ve never met a ghost before.”
“Be serious! I own that that stone-hearted wasp could scare a ghost from its haunt, but it ain’t likely she’s here to do Barr a service. You heard that servant, she’s come to see a ghost. A ghost!”
“Yes.”
Plantagenet Halsey leaned on his cane, and looked past his nephew’s wide shoulder at the immobile footman who filled the Arch doorway and shook his head with a frown. When Alec’s grin broadened the old man had a flash of insight. It didn’t make sense but he said it anyway.
“She wants to see Mrs. Bourdon?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s the ghost.”
The old man’s voice was explosive.
“Miranda Bourdon is a ghost?”
Alec linked arms with his uncle and they walked along the passageway that lead to the servant stairs.
“That she is a ghost answers many questions.”
Plantagenet Halsey wondered if his nephew had swallowed too much bathwater, which had somehow addled his thinking. Still, he seemed in control of his mental faculties and so he humored him, if only to see where his unexpected thoughts were leading.
“Does it?”
“Yes. But it leaves some unanswered and those are the questions only Mrs. Bourdon can answer.”
“Can she?”
They stopped in a dimly lit alcove outside the servant door.
Alec smiled at his uncle’s expression of interested confusion. It was one he remembered from his boyhood, half studious interest half suppressed incredulity, when he would prattle on at him about the usual things that young boys dream about—adventures on the high seas and being a pirate; flying like a bird and up into the stars; what was on the other side of the world if one dug deep enough and for long enough; where did monsters hide during daylight?
“There is no ghost in any real sense of the word,” he replied placidly. “But Miranda Bourdon has risen from the dead of Lord George’s past; hence she is a ghost. Though why Weir made a very public declaration that she was a ghost come back to haunt him when he knows who she is and has accused her of blackmailing Lord George is not only surprising but exceedingly interesting…”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Alec stated. “A public declaration is the last thing Lord George, Weir and the Duke would want for it draws attention to the very person they wish to keep firmly below the floorboards. Charles tried to blackmail me into helping him keep the whole mucky business from becoming public. It is that circumstance: society becoming aware of Lord George’s appalling behavior, which he so desperately wanted to avoid. And here he is in a lodging house making melodramatic pronouncements and turning into a blubbering mess, about Mrs. Bourdon being a ghost!? It does not make sense. Obviously the small matter of dissuading Miranda Bourdon from exposing Lord George’s vile behavior has not gone Weir’s way, and that whatever carefully laid plans he had made for his future and, believe me, Uncle, Charles does not leave his house without knowing to the hour what he will be doing for the day, he was the same at school, and—
“Close-mouthed sot!”
“—those plans are now ruined, possibly beyond repair. But that does not explain the very public nature of his disappointment.” Alec paused on a thought. “Why Lady Rutherglen has involved herself intrigues me…”
“Does it?” Plantagenet Halsey asked, trying to follow his nephew’s complex musings.
“Lady Rutherglen has come hot foot on Weir’s heels to confront the ghost which means she is well aware of her nephew’s sordid past and she too is intent on making certain Miranda Bourdon’s blackmail attempt does not become public. But the very nature of her display has also drawn attention to Mrs. Bourdon—”
“If that young woman has blackmailed anyone I’ll turn Tory!”
“Alleged blackmail, warrant me that,” Alec replied with a smile. “I realize Lord George is Lady Rutherglen’s nephew but surely the matter was best left to the Duke to deal with… Though… His Grace may still be at his estate… That one of his liveried servants is guarding the door to Mrs. Bourdon’s apartment indicates he knows that she is here and suggests he means to make an appearance; his servant to ensure she does not—er—shoot the moon.”
“Think he means to confront her about Stanton?” When his nephew took a moment too long to respond, the old man said emphatically, “I’ll not let him touch a hair on her precious head!”
Alec smiled lovingly at his uncle’s blatant chivalry. “Olivia assured me Cleveley is not given to bully-boy tactics, so you may put away your knight’s armor. His Grace is more circumspect in his approach. Hence, the giant in the doorway.”
“So you think Weir went snivellin’ cap-in-hand to Lady Rutherglen after his little fright from a specter?” Plantagenet Halsey muttered, feeling foolish at his outburst.
“It would seem so, given Lady Rutherglen is downstairs making demands. Though, like Weir’s earlier performance, her being here, and in similar dramatic style, merely advertises the presence of Mrs. Bourdon, and will heighten curiosity amongst Barr’s select clientele as to why particular upright members of Polite Society are in a flap about her presence.”
“Well, the old hornet’s been stirred in her nest and for a third time in a day.”
“Third?”
“She had the bare-cheeked effrontery to send Barr a letter by this mornin’s post defamin’ Miranda Bourdon’s good character and declarin’ her unfit to inhabit this establishment. Made all sorts of insinuations about her bein’ immoral and havin’ gentlemen callers and the like. Salacious rot!” When his nephew remained silent, the old man added, as if reading Alec’s thoughts, “I know. You’re wonderin’ like me why she would do such a reckless thing when, as you say, it draws attention to Miranda Bourdon. By settin’ her claims in ink she’s linked her name to Mrs. Bourdon’s, and with no explanation offered. Of course she ain’t goin’ to mention why; ain’t goin’ to air Stanton’s shameful dirty laundry, is she?”
“No. The third?” Alec asked, slightly impatient, acutely conscious that the longer he lingered the longer Tam was alone with a woman in the throes of childbirth.
“While Mrs. Bourdon and I were at the Abbey’s eleven o’clock service, Frances Rutherglen had a fit or some sort of turn, and Mrs. Bourdon made the acute observation that Lady Rutherglen had neither a good heart or a clear conscience. I agreed with her, but didn’t think too hard about it. But come to think on it now, not a truer word has been spoken about her ladyship and by a young woman who, until today, I would not have thought knew Frances Rutherglen from Eve! The poor child had tears in her eyes when she said it, too. Odd.”
“Yes,” Alec replied calmly, though his uncle’s revelations quickened his pulse for it strengthened his suspicion that the connection between Miranda Bourdon and Lady Rutherglen went deeper than mere acquaintance. “A giant guarding her door will surely prohibit an audience with Mrs. Bourdon which may be enough to send Lady Rutherglen on her way. For providing a sentry, thanks must go to the Duke. Now you must excuse me, Uncle.”
“That don’t mean Cleveley ain’t up to his eyeballs in muck!”
Alec opened the servant door.
“On the contrary,” Alec replied with an enigmatic smile. “What you have just told me makes me even more certain that the Duke is bound up so tightly in this imbroglio that it may just be choking the life out of him.”
“Bravo to that! I hope the bindin’ cuts off his blood supply, then he might have some notion of what it’s like for those poor wretches onboard His Majesty’s frigates!”
With his uncle’s satisfied pronouncement, Alec disappeared into the darkened narrow recesses of the servant corridor and Plantagenet Halsey returned to the landing outside the Arch apartment where he intended to encamp until he had news of how Miranda Bourdon was fairing. A servant brought him a ribbonback chair, a sidetable with lighted candelabra upon it and the latest newssheet. He ordered his dinner to be brought to him on a tray, and to fetch some food and drink for the mute hulk standing in the doorway, and as he was a mountain of a man, the kitchen had best supply a mountain of food to keep him upright for if he knew one thing about childbirth, which was limited to the birth of his nephew, it was that the process could take anywhere from several hours to a few days. He then opened wide the newssheet and, turning the print to the candlelight, settled behind the pages; a smug smile animating his face when the mute colossus in the doorframe thanked him in a softly spoken voice; a gentle giant after all.
“The shawl, Thomas. I knitted a shawl for the baby,” Miranda explained, sitting gingerly on the edge of the mattress, arms stiff and fingers squeezing down tightly into the soft bed covers as another contraction forced her eyes shut and clamped her teeth. When she could breath easy again she looked at Tam who was rinsing his hands in the porcelain bowl on the mahogany washing stand. “When Sophie was put to my breast, she was not wrapped in the shawl. You must remember—”
“Yes. Yes, I remember,” Tam answered quietly and went down on his haunches before her. When she nodded, tears in her eyes, he swallowed hard and squeezed her hand. “But I don’t remember everything, Ma’am. To be honest, I’ve tried hard to forget that night ever happened.”
“So have I,” Miranda confessed. “But I never forgot your kindness. You—we were not more than children. No one should bear witness to such horrors. Have you since—”
“No. Never,” Tam said quickly. “I’ve assisted at other lying-ins but nothing so awful as that night.” He smiled, hoping to project confidence; inside he was a quaking mass of nerves. “This will be different. It will be as childbirth is: Painful and slow, because this is your first, but you and the baby will come through it. I promise.”
He straightened his legs as another contraction caused Miranda to cry out and put one hand to her belly. She moaned and when able to control her breathing said fearfully,
“I want to believe you, Thomas. But the pains are… unbearable… I am… I am so scared. So very scared.”
“Mr. Blackwell took the shawl,” Tam said, because it was true and to distract her from her fear.
“Charles Weir told me Mr. Blackwell is dead. Is he?” When Tam nodded, Miranda bowed her head. Tears dropped onto her stained chemise. “He was a good man, Thomas. A very good man.”
“Yes. Yes, he was, Ma’am,” Tam replied, tears welling up.
He quickly dashed a hand across his face and sniffed loudly. It would not do to start bawling like a baby! Where would her confidence in him be then? When she made motions to stand he was quick to help her up, an arm about her shoulders.
They shuffled about the room; from the four poster bed to the windowseat where Tam had drawn back the curtains and thrown up the sash windows to let in light and air; from the window seat to the wash stand and back to the bed. He could not be certain until he had examined her properly, but from past experience he reckoned the baby would not be born for many hours yet, if at all today.
He waited while she coiled in pain from another contraction, breathing ragged, and then quietened before he said gently,
“Mr. Blackwell wanted Sophie’s ma to be buried with something belonging to the baby. I heard him say so to Mr. Dobbs. You remember Mr. Dobbs?” he prattled on, trying to keep Miranda calm, as much as himself. “He was my master and an apothecary and when called to it, a man-midwife. He delivered many babies in St. Judes. I went with him many times. Mr. Blackwell said the sh
awl was something personal that would join mother to child. He didn’t want her buried alone. He said she could use the shawl in Heaven. So he took it.”
Miranda nodded, satisfied. “I am glad. He loved Miriam in spite of all her waywardness. He was a good father to her.”
“Father? Then she wasn’t your sister? She was Mr. Blackwell’s daughter?”
Another contraction and Miranda shuddered and groaned and clung heavily to Tam.
“Apologies, Ma’am. It’s not my place to ask. It’s just… If there is one thing I do remember clearly as if it was yesterday, it’s that the two of you were so alike. And when the babe needed nourishment she took to your breast and you were able to feed her. But if Mr. Blackwell was her father…”
“Your master—Dobbs? Dobbs encouraged me. He said that if I did not let the babe suckle it would die. He said all the wet nurses he knew were gin-soaked doxies.” She laughed at the memory and Tam did too. “I had forgotten that until now.” She smiled at Tam. “Your master was also a good man, Thomas.”
Tam felt tears prick his lids and he cursed himself for acting the girl; some fine apothecary he would make! He cleared his throat and nodded.
“Yes. Yes, he was. And a fine apothecary. None better.”
“Her name was Miriam. We grew up as sisters and for the longest time we believed we were natural sisters. We were so similar,” Miranda said, smiling at a memory, “that we could pass for one another, and did upon occasion. So close. So alike. But such different temperaments… We realized in our teens that for us to be sisters meant my father or my mother had had an affair. A singularly foolish thought. I know it is disrespectful, and you may be shocked by a daughter’s words, Thomas, but my mother is a cold-hearted unloving creature, and my father, if he had had children out of wedlock would certainly not have brought them home. And then, one day, Miriam confided in me that her father was Mr. Blackwell! Just like that, she told me. She had no knowledge of her mother, and Mr. Blackwell would not tell her, no matter how many times she pleaded with him. I would like to sit again, Thomas. And you must do what you must.”
Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) Page 28