“I am not sure you’re being entirely fair, Emily. We don’t know that he was trifling with Cora. He may have never talked about marriage with her. We only have her word on the subject.”
“You saw her letters—they were having a torrid affair,” I said. “At least one of words.”
“A gentleman rarely has a torrid affair with a lady he would consider marrying. It could impugn her reputation.” He leaned over the table, lining up his shot.
“Colin!”
“It’s true, Emily,” Simon said. “Cora Fitzgerald, no matter what she claims now, could have had very little hope of marrying a marquess.”
“And you think that is acceptable?” I asked.
“I am not offering judgment on the situation,” Simon said. “I merely confirm your always-brilliant husband’s observations. You know how I feel about the separation of classes. It is poison.”
“Cora Fitzgerald is a vicar’s daughter,” I said. “She is hardly the sort of girl who would seem obvious prey to a man of loose morals.”
“How quickly Archibald has fallen in your esteem!”
“Simon, do not tease me.”
“Let us stay focused on what matters,” Colin said, sinking his last ball and winning the game. Without comment, he began to rack the balls so they could start again. “Archibald didn’t spend much time at Montagu, so he couldn’t have seen Miss Fitzgerald often. The affair, such as it was, would have been conducted primarily via letters.”
“Much like his relationship with his so-called fiancée,” I said. I found myself liking Archibald Scolfield less and less the more I learned about him.
“It would have been simple for him to keep the two relationships separate,” Colin said.
“Until he was discovered,” I said, finishing for him. “Thereby giving both ladies ample motive to want him dead.”
“The two of you frighten me,” Simon said. “Sometimes I think you share your thoughts without having to say them aloud. It is unnerving.”
The door to the room opened. Lily, a pretty girl of no more than eighteen who had worked for me for several years, stepped inside quietly, tended to the fire, and started to leave. Simon stopped her.
“Wait, please, if you would, Lily.” He put down his cue and disappeared from the room, returning a few moments later with a piece of heavy watercolor paper that had been rolled into a scroll. “The vista I told you about,” he said. “I painted it for you so you won’t have to wait until next week.”
Lily’s face flushed, and she looked at me, fear in her eyes. “It’s all right, Lily,” I said. “Lord Flyte is perfectly harmless. Although one might expect a gentleman to be more considerate about putting young women in awkward situations.”
“Thank you, madam.” She turned to Simon. “And, sir, I—”
“There’s no need, Lily. I do hope you enjoy it. I’ve not your talent, but I do hope the work brings you some pleasure.”
“It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “You are a master. The way you’ve painted the water it’s as if it’s really rippling.”
“That is a very kind compliment. You are familiar with watercolors?”
She studied the painting, seeming almost lost in it. “I’ve never painted myself, of course. I only have pencils. I’ve never tried anything else.”
“Lily is quite talented,” I said. “Her sketches seem almost real.”
“Thank you, madam,” Lily said, her cheeks coloring.
“I have seen them,” Simon said, “and have already told her she is in possession of a not inconsiderable talent.”
Lily murmured more thanks, carefully rolled the watercolor, and then held it behind her back, her gaze fixed to the floor. “Will there be anything else, madam?”
“No, that is all,” I said.
She bobbed a curtsy and left us.
“Do I need to worry about my staff?” Colin asked. “Please tell me you’re not harassing the maids.”
“Of course I’m not,” Simon said. “I was taken with a view on your magnificent grounds. I mentioned it to her. She said she would take a look at it the next time she had an afternoon free. It struck me as terribly sad that she’d have no opportunity for almost a week, so, knowing she has an interest in art, I painted it for her. Is that wrong?”
“Not as such,” Colin said. “So long as she doesn’t feel pestered.”
“What a life it must be. Time to yourself only once a week. Can you imagine?” Simon asked.
“I cannot,” Colin said, “but then my work sometimes occupies me for months at a time with no break. None of us has unlimited leisure, Flyte.”
“Spoken like a gentleman,” I said. “Most ladies are forbidden to have anything but leisure, no matter what we would like.”
“Lily might find that appealing,” Colin said, turning back to his game and lining up his cue for his next shot. The ball bounced off the felt side of the table, missing the hole.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “It is deadly dull to have no useful purpose, particularly when you have no choice about it.”
Simon looked wistful and paused before taking his next shot. “Sometimes I think I should move to America, where every man can make himself into whatever he wants.”
“You will never leave Yorkshire,” I said.
“Truer words were never spoken, Emily,” Colin said. “I am still amazed we persuaded him to come as far as Derbyshire.”
“I thought it would be unreasonable to ask that you have the twins baptized at my chapel,” Simon said, “but do not expect me to make a habit of traveling. I’m far too comfortable in my home.”
Davis cracked open the door and popped his head into the room.
“Lady Matilda Scolfield for you, madam,” he said. “I surmised from her appearance that things have gone rather pear-shaped for her, so I put her in the library and will bring up port at once.”
“Thank you, Davis, what would I ever do without you?” I gave him a quick smile and started for the door.
“This from a lady who scolds me for taking liberties with the staff?” Simon asked.
“Nothing will ever come between her and Davis,” Colin said. I stopped, returned to my husband, and gave him a kiss.
“Nothing at all,” I said.
Davis had been the butler in my first husband’s household, and soon after Philip’s death had become indispensable to me. He understood my passion for port, anticipated the times I would require it, and did his best to keep me away from cigars. It was a battle he frequently lost, but I appreciated his vain efforts to protect my reputation. Colin understood long before our marriage that he would have to take Davis along with me, and soon after, he realized Davis was at least as necessary to him. Few things in life can compete with a good butler.
The instant I went downstairs and saw Matilda, I knew Davis had judged the situation with a keen accuracy. Red eyes told me she had been crying, but now she looked to be heading at a terrifying pace to rage. Her hair, escaping from its pins, formed a deranged sort of halo around her face, and mud covered the bottom six inches of her skirt. It was as if she had run the entire way from Montagu. She had all but collapsed when I entered the room.
“It’s over now,” she said, dissolving into angry sobs. “Every bit of it.”
“Every bit of what?” I asked, sitting down and pulling her next to me.
“My life. Everything.” She spat the words, flailing her arms as she spoke. “I don’t even know where I shall go. I’m practically homeless.”
“You own no fewer than four houses, so I doubt you’ve nowhere to go, whatever the circumstance,” I said. “What has happened?”
“I am not Archie’s heir. There is someone else claiming the title, and unless you help me expose him for the charlatan he is, there will be no reason for me to go on living.”
Davis entered the room discreetly and placed a silver tray with two glasses and a decanter filled with port on the table nearest to me. He poured, although
standard practice would have one serve port to oneself. I had not known that—what lady could?—when I first became fond of the libation. Davis, a consummate professional, had not corrected my error, and I found I rather liked him pouring for me and had decided to disregard convention and instead do as I pleased.
“Take a sip, then a deep breath, and then tell me exactly what has put you in this state,” I said once the butler had left as quietly as he had come.
Fortunately for me, Matilda followed directions. The port had its usual soothing effect, and soon she was calm enough to talk rationally.
“A solicitor came from London. Unannounced. Very bad manners.” She took another slug from her glass. “He sat me down and informed me that I am not the Montagu heir. That role goes to some far-distant cousin called Rodney Scolfield who sounds like an absolute reprobate.”
“Do you know him?”
“I have never heard mention of him until today. He is some sort of fortune hunter, currently en route from South America or Mexico or California or some equally dreadful place where he’s been searching for the lost gold of Cortés.”
“Cortés?” I asked. “Fascinating. How exactly is he related to Archibald?”
“The genealogy doesn’t matter because it is all fabricated. Of that I am certain.”
“Why?”
“Because I have never even heard anyone in the family refer to him! Don’t you think someone would have mentioned him?”
“How distant a cousin is he?” It was not unusual in the least for entailed estates to go to relatives heretofore unknown. Primogeniture ensured such situations would arise with frequency, and the widows and daughters (or in this case granddaughters) forced out of their ancestral home had little reason to rejoice at being displaced so that the family name could continue, unbroken, through the male line.
“I can’t remember the details. Not that it matters. What I need now is for you to help me prove that he is a fraud.”
“When do you expect Mr. Scolfield to arrive at Montagu? I suppose I should call him Lord Montagu.”
“Do not dare call him any such thing, no matter what he claims,” she said. “I’ve not the slightest idea when to expect him. Who could say how long it takes to extract oneself from the godless jungle? If, that is, he is still in the godless jungle.”
“Did the solicitor give you any proof of the relation?”
“Yes, but I didn’t bring it with me. Do you need to see it?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” I said. “I suppose for the moment it would make sense to take as a foregone conclusion that his claim is legitimate.”
“Absolutely not, Emily. How can you suggest such a thing?”
“Whatever evidence there is satisfied Archibald’s solicitors, correct?” I asked. Matilda nodded. “So why do you think the solicitor is wrong?”
“Though I have never heard his name, I do know that entire line of the family is illegitimate.”
“Is that so?” I asked.
“I have never been more sure of anything,” she said. “My nanny told me the story when I was a girl.”
“But you’ve never heard of this branch of the family before?”
“Well, I knew of them in theory.” She scowled. “I just didn’t remember the particulars.”
“And your nanny’s story is the extent of your knowledge of the situation?”
“Nanny was the most honest person I’ve ever known.” Matilda sounded like an obedient schoolgirl.
“I take it she is no longer with us?”
“She died six years ago.”
“A pity,” I said. “Do tell me the story.”
“It’s the usual sort of thing—broken hearts, forbidden love. A long-ago Montagu fell in love with a servant. The servant wasn’t trifled with, mind you, this was love, real and true. But the baby born to the unlucky couple was passed off as a legitimate heir and never knew the true story of his birth. I admit to having only a tenuous grasp of the details.”
“I am afraid, Matilda, we shall need more than a nursery bedtime story.”
“I cannot deal with this on my own.” Desperation filled her voice. “Will you help me?”
“Of course. I promise to do whatever I can, but you must be realistic about your expectations. Just because you want Mr. Scolfield to be illegitimate does not mean he will turn out to be.”
“I will do anything necessary to keep Montagu Manor out of the hands of this professional treasure hunter. Grandfather would be spinning in his grave.”
“I shall come to you in the morning, and we can go over whatever family records we can find.”
“Thank you, Emily.”
“You must promise me, Matilda, that you will not cling to false hope.”
“I’ll promise anything you want, so long as it keeps Rodney Scolfield as far away from me as possible.”
Downstairs
iv
Lily had never seen anything outside of a museum quite so lovely as Lord Flyte’s watercolor. She had always loved drawing and spent whatever she could afford on pencils and paper. When she had worked for Lady Emily in London, she had used her afternoons off to visit the National Gallery and sketch her favorite canvases, but she never dreamed of being able to paint. She could hardly imagine being able to afford the materials. An earl could, of course, and she was so very flattered that Lord Flyte had chosen to share his talent with her. She wondered if she could somehow manage to go to the lake sooner than next week, but it didn’t seem possible. There was too much work to be done. She rolled the painting back up and slid it into one of her dresser drawers.
“Have you finished with the State Rooms?” Mrs. Elliott asked, standing in the doorway to the bedroom Lily shared with Alice. The State Rooms were rarely used, but the wood, with its elaborate carving done when Elizabeth had been queen—or maybe when her father reigned, or was it the Scottish bloke who came later? Lily couldn’t remember. At any rate, it still needed frequent polishing. The present queen had never visited Anglemore Park, but Lady Emily was acquainted with her, so it made sense to keep the rooms at the ready. Mrs. Elliott always said one never could predict the whims of royalty.
“Yes,” Lily said. “The tea leaves worked wonders for getting the dust out of the carpets.”
“Very good.” This was as close to high praise as one could expect from Mrs. Elliott. She ran a tight household and was convinced kindness could lead to idleness. “Mr. Hargreaves has asked to see you. You can find him in his study. I do hope there’s nothing for me to worry about?”
“No, no, of course not, Mrs. Elliott.” Lily smoothed her crisp apron. “I’ll go down right away.” Mrs. Elliott reached up and adjusted Lily’s lace-trimmed cap.
“You should be more careful to present yourself well. A sloppy maid is a lazy maid. Go now, and be sure not to get behind in the rest of your work. Mr. Hargreaves would not appreciate it.”
The master of the house frequently retreated to his study during the afternoon when his wife went for a ride. Lily wondered if Lord Flyte would be with him, and then caught herself thinking about the latter gentleman in a rather undignified and decidedly dreamy manner. She wondered about the origin of his limp. Had he been injured in battle? Or defending someone’s honor? Or perhaps hunting elephants in Africa? She shook her head, scolded herself silently, and marched to Mr. Hargreaves’s study.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Lily,” Mr. Hargreaves said, motioning for her to sit on one of the two stiff leather chairs across from his desk. As she sat, he stood up, came around the desk, and took the other seat. “Davis has informed me that Prudence, the kitchen maid, saw someone coming into the house through the servants’ entrance shortly after the time the Marquess of Montagu was murdered.”
“Yes, sir. I have heard that.”
“He also tells me that you informed him of having seen someone, too?”
“Yes, sir. I believe I saw the same man.”
“You are quite certain it was a man?”
“Oh
, yes, sir.” Lily was sitting bolt upright. “It was definitely a man. That’s the one thing I’m sure of.”
“Could you see his face?”
“No, but he was too big and bulky to have been a woman.”
“Was it a servant?”
“I couldn’t rightly say, sir. It was dark except for the moon.”
“Where exactly were you standing?” Mr. Hargreaves asked.
“I was in the gallery on the first floor. I can’t say for sure where he was going. He was below the terrace, coming around the side, like he was headed for the servants’ entrance. I’d just finished putting fresh water in the bedroom ewers, sir. The moon was bright, and I stopped at the window. I didn’t stay for long. I know I was a bit late getting things done that evening, but I wasn’t shirking my duties.”
“No one suspects you of that, Lily.”
“Am I suspected of something else?” There was fear in her voice.
“No.” He smiled kindly. “I am glad you spotted the moon and took a moment to appreciate it. A harvest moon like that deserves notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think you could describe any bit of the man’s clothing?”
Lily tensed, trying as hard as she could to think clearly. She shook her head. “I’m afraid not, sir. He might have been wearing a cloak of some sort, but I can’t be sure. He was really just a big, dark mass. I’m sorry if that’s not enough help.”
“You’ve done wonderfully. I shan’t keep you from your work any longer.” He flashed her another of his devastatingly charming smiles—she would have to remember to tell Alice—and rose again to standing. “Thank you, Lily.”
As she left the room, Lily became aware that her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. It was silly to have been nervous, she thought, but how could one avoid it? Murder’s ugly head would let no one in the house have peace.
5
I suspect, when it came to the matter of Rodney Scolfield’s legitimacy, I initially proved something of a disappointment to Matilda. I was already used to this, as our previous acquaintance had similar results. While we both believed passionately that women ought to have the vote, she wanted a much more radical and violent fight than I. I preferred a more subtle approach, convincing, for example, members of Parliament, one by one, to reconsider their views on suffrage. Matilda would rather fling rocks through their windows until they were battered into submission. Now, when it came to the unexpected heir to Montagu, she wanted immediate and extreme results, but that was not to be. After studying the documents supplied by Archibald’s solicitor, I saw no reason to doubt Mr. Scolfield’s claim to the Montagu title. This enraged Matilda, and I did my best to pacify her, but to little result. In the end, I decided there was no harm in indulging in a bit of genealogical research while we waited for Scolfield’s arrival from, as Matilda so aptly described it, the godless jungle. Colin had ventured to Oxford so that he might dig into Archibald’s academic career, and he then planned to conduct further interviews with the man’s closest friends. I was glad to have something of my own to do and knew that if there were some irregularity to be found in the family records, it could, perhaps, have a significant impact on the murder investigation.
Behind the Shattered Glass Page 6