Behind the Shattered Glass

by Tasha Alexander

  “No damage done, Lily. I can stand up to much more, I assure you.” He was dressed in tweeds and carrying a pipe that filled the air with the warm and comforting scent of tobacco and spice. “I should have been alerted by ‘Jerusalem.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I believe this fell out of your apron pocket,” he said, handing her the sketchbook she always carried with her. “Are you an artist?”

  “No sir, not at all,” she said. “I do like to draw, but I have no real talent for it and no training. It’s just a lark, really.”

  “May I?” He nodded at the book, and she passed it back to him. He opened it and flipped through the pages, which were filled with portraits of the household staff, rendered with exceptional skill, the images so realistic, so lifelike, they were reminiscent of photographs. “These are quite remarkable, Lily. You do indeed have real talent.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She squirmed a bit, feeling uncomfortable. “I would never sketch while I’m supposed to be working.”

  “I would have expected nothing less,” he said. “You’re an admirable girl. I am most impressed.” He returned the book to her.

  “I’m much obliged, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy and continued along her way.

  “Lily!” Lord Flyte called after her. “During my walk this morning I noticed a particularly fine vista from a hill overlooking the lake near that charming folly the Temple of the Muses to the east. Do you know it?”

  “I don’t, sir.”

  “I should love for you to see it. I think your artist’s eyes would appreciate it.”

  Lily tried to keep her eyes on the floor but wanted nothing more than to look up at him. “I’ll do my best to do so on my free afternoon next week, sir. Thank you for the suggestion.”

  “My pleasure entirely.” His smile warmed her to her feet, and while the feeling wasn’t entirely welcome to her, Lily’s step was lighter as she went back to her work. His tobacco reminded her of her grandfather, and she found herself trusting him more than was likely wise. Gentlemen in the house should be treated with civil courtesy, but not noticed by the female staff beyond that. She thought about what Mrs. Elliott would say should word get back to her about a housemaid conversing with Lord Flyte. That brought Lily back to earth.

  Alice was waiting in Mr. Hargreaves’s room with a bundle of clean linen to be put on the bed. The bedclothes were changed regularly although the master never slept in the room. He was always in Lady Emily’s. His was a pleasant space, very manly, Alice had always thought, all done up in a deep claret color with old paintings on the walls. Lily told her one of them was very famous, by some Italian bloke, Leonardo something or other, but Alice didn’t know anything about that. Lily was the one who knew about art. “You’re bright today,” she said, noticing the color in Lily’s cheeks. “Been arguing with someone, or have more pleasant things improved your complexion?”

  “More pleasant, if you must know, and I’ve nothing further to say on the matter.”

  “If I didn’t have such gossip I’d pry more out of you,” Alice said. “But I heard Pru talking to Mr. Davis. She says she saw someone coming across the grounds to the servants’ entrance last night after the murder. Thing is, none of us should’ve been out then.”

  “Did she see the person enter the house?”

  “No, but she heard the door open and close.”

  “What makes her think it was one of the staff?” Lily asked. “It could have been someone else entirely.”

  “As if Mr. Hargreaves would be using the servants’ entrance to his own house.” Alice snorted. “I don’t think so.”

  “What did Mr. Davis say?”

  “Only that he would speak to Mr. Hargreaves when he returns.”

  “I imagine we’ll all be interviewed again,” Lily said.

  “That’s the trouble with murder,” Alice said. “It doesn’t go away. You don’t think there’s any truth to that nonsense the nursery maid was always spouting, do you? That having a murderer’s child in the house will bring evil?”

  “Utter rubbish,” Lily said. “You know, Alice, I thought I saw someone that night when I was up here getting the dressing rooms ready after dinner. I don’t know what time it was, but I’m sure it was a man, and he was near our entrance to the house.”

  “Could it have been the same person Pru saw?”

  “It’s possible. I hadn’t really remembered it till now.” Lily crinkled her brow. “I suppose it must have been. Surely there weren’t two people marauding in the night?”

  “You’d better tell Mr. Hargreaves.”

  Lily nodded and took a deep breath. “I must indeed.”

  “Let’s get this finished, then,” Alice said. “Won’t get easier for being put off. And that way you can get straight to the master. Lucky girl. Wish I had an excuse to talk to him.”

  They both giggled, then made quick work of the room, quicker than Lily would have liked. Mr. Hargreaves was faultlessly kind, but she didn’t like the idea of talking about murder to anyone, even him.

  4

  Colin and I agreed it would be preferable for me to call on Miss Fitzgerald without him, both of us aware that gentlemen don’t often bring out candor in young ladies with indelicate romantic connections. I stopped at Anglemore only to get my pony trap to drive into Melton Carbury, neatly avoiding my mother, who was taking tea in one of the sitting rooms in the west wing. Melton Carbury was picturesque, pleasantly situated near a stream over which stood a mill so quaint one could hardly believe it functioned in any way but to add to the charm of the village. I asked the first person I saw to direct me to the Fitzgeralds’, and was surprised to learn they lived in the vicarage, a living that was part of the Montagu estate.

  I had not figured Cora for a vicar’s daughter.

  Letting myself indulge in a flight of fancy for just a moment, I imagined Cora to be a particularly fetching housemaid, but then I remembered her letters, as well as Archibald’s friends’ statements about her middle-class background. An educated—and daring—lady had written them.

  A dour-looking middle-aged housekeeper opened the door, ushered me inside, and seated me in a cozy drawing room decorated modestly and with a sense of decorum appropriate to a vicarage. A few moments later, a slim girl in an uninspired black dress joined me. Her hair, blond and wispy, was pulled into a low bun. Neither her appearance nor the pained expression on her face could detract from her beauty. Her delicate features, rose-colored lips, and emerald eyes were beguiling, even as she pulled an unpleasant face. It was easy to see why she had inspired romantic passions in Archibald Scolfield.

  “Do forgive me,” she said. “I was not expecting visitors.”

  “The fault is entirely mine,” I said and introduced myself. “I am here on behalf of the Marquess of Montagu.”

  “That seems unlikely, Lady Emily. Lord Montagu is dead.” Her voice trembled.

  “You heard about the unfortunate event?”

  “His cousin, Lady Matilda, sent for my father this morning. She was in need of religious consolation.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I understand you were well acquainted with Lord Montagu?”

  “Archibald? I was going to marry him.” A small sob caught in her throat, but she retained her composure. The cost of this was visible in the deep lines on her brow and the tears pooling in her large eyes.

  I counted to ten, silently and in Greek, and then drew a deep breath before speaking. Another erstwhile fiancée? “Forgive my impertinence, but was your engagement official?”

  “He had not yet spoken to my father, if that is what you mean,” Cora said. “As a result, we had made no announcement.”

  “But your father was aware of your understanding?”

  “Not as such.” She lifted a black-bordered handkerchief to her eye, catching the tears before they could fall. “We thought it best to exercise a certain amount of discretion.”

  “Why was that?”

  “The very idea of planning a wedding wh
ile Archibald’s family was in mourning was distasteful. They all adored his grandfather.”

  “So you had not made any firm plans for the wedding?”

  “Archibald had arranged with Lady Matilda to swap that hideous nouveau medieval heap for her house in London. We were going to live there.”

  “You are not fond of Montagu Manor?”

  “Lady Emily, I have spent almost my entire life holed up in the country. I realize Melton Carbury is lovely, but I despise it. There’s such limited society and so little to do. What would I accomplish by moving from this house five miles up the road to a pile of stones made up to be a castle? I want to be in London, to go to the theater, to parties and balls.”

  “So you would be married from this house and move to town?” I asked.

  “Archibald thought it would be much more romantic if we eloped.” She pressed her lips together and looked down. “Forgive me, it is difficult to talk about such things now that they can never happen.”

  “I am truly sorry for your loss,” I said, “and I would not press you to speak on the subject if I did not believe it of grave importance. The more we know about Lord Montagu’s life, the more likely we are to find his killer.”

  “I understand.” Her voice shook in what in other circumstances would have been considered a most ladylike and attractive way. She was the picture of frail beauty waiting to be rescued and looked after with the tender care that might only be provided by one of the empire’s finest gentlemen. “Eloping, he insisted, would best capture the…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away from me. “Would capture the passion of his love for me.”

  Archibald, I thought, had very little shame. “What would your father say?”

  “He would hardly notice. He’s the least sentimental man alive. So long as I was married and respectable, he wouldn’t care about the details of the arrangements. You’d think a man who was devoted to missionary work in his younger years and spent so much time in exotic locales would have little patience for country life, but that has proven not to be the case. Father is barely aware of what I do, so long as I refrain from embarrassing him. It has taught me well the art of discretion. Archibald noticed my skills in that area straightaway.”

  I felt a deep dislike for the Marquess of Montagu brewing in the depths of my soul. Archibald’s attempt at romance did not sound like something a gentleman would suggest. Quite the contrary. More likely, it was a disgraceful attempt to seduce a respectable young lady.

  “I understand there was frequent correspondence between the two of you.”

  “That is true.”

  “Would it be possible to see the letters he wrote you?”

  “I burned them after I read them. I could not risk my father stumbling upon them.”

  “Is that because his were like yours?” I asked.

  “I do not understand your meaning.”

  “Yours were rather explicit.”

  “Archibald had a great appreciation for my epistolary talents,” she said, “and I knew what to write to ensure he would not forget me in the face of London’s myriad temptations.”

  The unabashed way she admitted this came as a shock, and I wondered if, in the absence of her mother, anyone had cautioned her against behaving in such a reckless fashion. Her letters had reeked of confidence and sophistication, but Archibald’s treatment of her suggested he was doing little more than taking advantage of a young lady not wholly aware of what she was doing.

  “When did you accept his proposal?” I asked.

  “He never made a formal proposal, Lady Emily,” she said. “It merely became evident to us both that marriage was the only way forward given the deep passion we shared.”

  “So you would marry and then move to London. Did Lord Montagu have many friends there?” I asked.

  “A few, I’m sure, but most of them live abroad, so we would not entertain much at home. We planned to travel as often as we could.”

  “What about his chums from Oxford?” I asked.

  “He did not remain close with any of them,” she said with a little sigh. “It was difficult for him to connect with people there. They did not understand him.”

  “So you have not met any of his friends?”

  “No. As I said, he doesn’t often invite them to England.”

  “I see.” I took a moment to compose myself and to attempt to be open to the possibility that there was an honorable explanation for Archibald’s devious behavior. I strongly suspected he had no intention of ever marrying Miss Fitzgerald. He would move her to London and live with her—perhaps even stage a false wedding—all the while going forth with plans to take the wealthy Miss Sturdevant as his bride. “Were you at home last night?”

  “No. I was assisting the widow of a local farmer. She has seven children, very little income, and fever sweeping through the house.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” I knew all too well the difficulties faced by tenants, particularly those in these past decades, when agriculture had become a tenuous way of life. I did everything I could for my own, making sure they were never in need and sending our own physician to treat them when they were ill. Colin ensured none of them lived in a condition he considered unacceptable. We both loathed poverty and did whatever was in our power to help those less fortunate than ourselves. Landholders had responsibility for their tenants, and we condemned in the strongest terms those families that did not take adequate care of the people living on their estates. “Might I offer any assistance?”

  “I am sure she would be grateful, but you really ought to leave it to Lady Matilda. They’re her tenants.”

  “I suppose,” I said. “Although I would imagine the more help, the better, and Lady Matilda is unlikely to have much spare time while dealing with the aftermath of her cousin’s death.”

  “That would have to be up to Lady Matilda.” Her curt tone left no doubt as to her feelings on the matter. “I shall be sure to pass the information along to her. If there’s nothing else, I must beg your leave, Lady Emily. Losing Archibald is a blow I am not sure I can withstand. I want nothing more than to sit in the church and pray for his soul.”

  Her tone, measured and calm, did not reflect the tightening around her eyes or the tension in her clenched jaw. I did believe she was mourning her loss, but there had been too many complications in her relationship with Archibald. There was something nervous about her manner, revealed by hands that couldn’t seem to remain still and eyes that flitted too quickly. I did not doubt Cora Fitzgerald would pray for the soul of her dead fiancé, but I wondered if she needed to pray for her own as well.

  *

  Colin and Simon were playing billiards when I returned home. This came as no surprise. Chess was Colin’s first love, but billiards a close second. Simon might joke about trouncing Colin in chess, but my husband was difficult to beat, and Simon was something of an expert when it came to the precise shots necessary to urge small, hard balls across a felt table and into a distant hole. It was a skill I certainly had never mastered. The billiard room was on the upper floor of the front of the house, opposite the nursery wing. The dark wood paneling on the walls, deep green velvet curtains hanging over the windows, and the thick, rich carpet made it a cozy retreat. It was an exceedingly comfortable space, particularly for gentlemen. The air had a permanent scent of cigar smoke, and all the best whisky in the house was consumed here. Due to my hopelessness when it came to the game, I tended to avoid the room in favor of the gallery that ran the length of the back of the house on the same floor, where we displayed our large collection of antiquities, and often sketched there while my husband played. This habit had led me to associate the click of billiard balls with Roman frescoes and Greek sculpture.

  I entered the room, avoiding Simon’s cue stick as he lined up a shot, and sat on the leather sofa that hugged one of the room’s long walls. Telamon, the smallest of the foxhounds, slunk over to my feet, and I reached down to pet him. “Cora Fitzgerald has left me questioning everything I
have ever believed about vicars’ daughters.” I leaned against the stiff back of the sofa, brushed a dog hair from the blue wool of my bolero bodice, and recounted for them our meeting. “I’m not sure what to think about her. Half of me thinks she’s the naive victim of a cad, the other half that she’s very good at whatever game’s afoot. It is as if she is part innocent young lady and part sophisticated woman of the world.”

  “What makes you doubt her?” Colin asked.

  “Her unwillingness to let me help the widow. I felt she was trying to keep me from speaking to the woman, perhaps because Miss Fitzgerald invented the entire incident. I am not convinced she was at the farmhouse when Archibald was murdered.”

  “What of this mysterious American set to marry Montagu, Hargreaves?” Simon asked. “Could Miss Sturdevant have killed her faithless fiancé?”

  “Unlikely, as she’s been in New York for the past two months,” Colin said. “Before that, she was in Paris for the better part of six months. Much of their relationship transpired via letters.”

  “I am not personally acquainted with Miss Sturdevant,” I said, “but the only criticisms I have heard of her are the sort that lead me to believe I would like her very much.”

  “A spirited girl who bucks convention?” Colin asked.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Quite.”

  “I wonder that you didn’t take her under your wing,” Simon said. He dropped two balls into a side pocket with a single shot.

  “I might have had I known more about her when she was in London last,” I said.

  “So Montagu likes his girls a bit wild,” Simon said.

  “Even when he’s proposing to the daughter of the local vicar,” I said. “I wonder how many other potential brides Archibald had accumulated.”