Behind the Shattered Glass

by Tasha Alexander

  “There’s no need, Matilda.”

  “I found something this afternoon that might amuse you,” she said. “Charlotte’s journals. The marchioness, you remember? I do hope you will come see me tomorrow and have a look.”

  “I would like that,” I said. “Where were they? Not in her trunk, obviously.”

  “No,” Matilda said. “In Grandfather’s study. He had a shelf full of old notebooks.”

  “Have you read them?”

  “I started to, but stopped, if you must know. There were too many words, and I couldn’t bear to face them. It’s all too dire. My life, that is. I don’t know how I shall ever be rid of Rodney, and I hate the thought of going to London or, worse, Scotland. I despise porridge.”

  “Why don’t you stay at Montagu?” I understood the difficulty of her situation, but if she loved the house so very much, surely being there would be preferable to self-imposed exile? “He does not want to make you leave.”

  “Would you want to live with him?” she asked.

  I had no interest in trying even to imagine such a thing. I could easily understand that Matilda would not welcome disruption in the privacy to which she had grown accustomed, and of course there was the matter of the Red Indian. Despite myself, I laughed.

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “May I be serious for a moment?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Can you remember anyone telling stories about Archibald misbehaving?”

  “As a child?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve chosen my words poorly. I know about what happened at Oxford. Was that the only time he was in trouble?”

  “He was constantly in trouble at school, but I don’t think that’s what you mean. Are you asking about young ladies?”

  “Yes.” I felt my cheeks go hot. “It is awkward, but I need to know. He certainly trifled with Miss Fitzgerald.”

  “Unless he was trifling with the wretched American,” Matilda said. “Maybe he planned to marry her, take her money, divorce her, and run off with Miss Fitzgerald.” She nodded. “Yes, I like the idea of that very much. It would very nearly make me forgive him his appalling taste in females.”

  “I am afraid we need to focus less on speculation and more on fact,” I said. “I say this having spent far too much time this afternoon indulging in the former.” Rodney and Miss Fitzgerald approached us.

  “Emily, could I have a word in private?” He looked exhausted.

  “Matilda, you can entertain Miss Fitzgerald, can’t you?” I asked.

  “With pleasure.” Matilda looped her arm through Cora’s. “Let’s get a drink and see what kind of trouble I can get you into.”

  Rodney and I stepped out of the room and into the great hall, which, depending on one’s point of view, was either a masterpiece or a nightmare of Elizabethan carving and plasterwork. An enormous chimneypiece flanked by large family portraits dominated the long wall opposite the front windows, but it was the elaborate screen dividing the room from the entranceway that commanded attention. Two arched doorways surrounded by carved wood and pillars elevated to the ceiling its three tiers of plasterwork depicting mythological scenes. A single lantern illuminated the space, hanging over the center of a long Georgian table, and wood paneling covered the walls to the height of the tall mantel. It was not a space that seemed to yearn for intimate conversation, but that appeared to be just what Rodney required.

  “What is the matter?” I asked. “You didn’t even call Matilda ‘Boudica.’ Has Miss Fitzgerald overwhelmed you?”

  “Something of the sort,” he said, pulling at his chin. “I am glad I was able to distract her from her loss, but I cannot step in as a replacement suitor.”

  “Is your heart engaged elsewhere, Lord Montagu?”

  “Perish the thought,” he said. “I am trying to start a new life, Emily. I want to have a go at running the estate, and I want to do it well. I cannot afford any distractions right now.”

  He looked sincere, and for just a moment I felt almost sorry for him. “I understand. Did you explain this to Miss Fitzgerald?”

  “I tried. She hears what she wants to. I have never before encountered someone simultaneously so naive and so sophisticated. She pulls a gent in with sweet girlish charm, and then before you know it she’s making it all too clear that she’s well aware of what might come next. She can change in an instant. It’s almost hard to believe she is real.”

  I could not have said it better myself.

  *

  The next morning, I asked Cook to put together a basket of food while I gathered a large bunch of flowers cut from the walled garden. Every Tuesday when we were in residence I made the rounds of my own tenants, bringing whatever they might need, so Cook and I had the process down to a science. She would prepare heaps of hearty and nutritious fare, all portable, while I organized clothing, linens, and other useful items no longer required in our household. Today we operated on a smaller scale, as I would be visiting only one house, but this did not stop Cook from concocting a feast that would have made Tantalus cry. Two footmen loaded my bounty into the carriage, and I set off, stopping to collect Matilda, who had agreed to accompany me to the tenant farmhouse where Miss Fitzgerald claimed to have spent time the night Archibald died. The farmer’s widow opened the door to us, but did not appear overly delighted to have guests. She curtsied to Matilda.

  “It’s very kind of you to come, Lady Matilda,” she said, “but we is doing quite fine, I assure you. No need to worry about us.”

  “This is Lady Emily Hargreaves from Anglemore Park,” Matilda said. “The vicar’s daughter told her there was sickness in your house. We wanted to make sure you were in need of no food or supplies or anything else with which we can help. If you require the doctor, we shall send for him at once.”

  “My boy is well now.”

  “May we come in?” I asked.

  “I suppose that would be all right.”

  The house was small and grubby. A pack of young children huddled in a corner, their faces dirty. They jumped to their feet in unison when they saw us, like bedraggled and unkempt soldiers who knew how to look sharp when required, regardless of the state of their uniforms. Whatever material comforts they lacked, their mother had not skimped on discipline.

  “This is Lady Matilda of Montagu and Lady Emily,” their mother announced.

  “Good morning, Lady Matilda,” they chanted in unison. “Good morning, Lady Emily.”

  We smiled at them and set to work. Matilda pulled the curtains back, letting light flood the room through dingy windowpanes. I filled a bucket with water and started to wipe them while Matilda swept the floor. All the while, we peppered the widow with questions.

  “How long were the children sick?” I asked.

  “It was only one of them, my youngest boy,” she said. “It was nothing, really. Just a sniffle.”

  “It must have been a help to have Miss Fitzgerald on hand.”

  “I’m not sure as to what you mean,” she said. “Miss Fitzgerald does visit at regular intervals. Since her mother died the vicar has no wife to check in on his flock. But she hasn’t been here in weeks.”

  “Are you quite sure?” I asked. I had finished with the windows, pulled a cheerful checked cloth from my basket, and spread it over the table. This was good and satisfying work with tangible and immediate results.

  “Well, thinking about it, I do recall her coming by when the boy was sick. She didn’t come inside, though. Only stood at the doorway and asked if we needed anything.”

  “Why didn’t she come in?” I began removing the food from the basket: several cheeses, a dozen Scotch eggs, a cold ham, two loaves of bread, meat pies, a selection of cakes, a bottle of milk, and a container filled with fresh lemonade. The children took quite an interest in all this, especially the cakes, and had soon surrounded me.

  “We didn’t need anything, and it was quite late. The children was already in bed.”

  “Do you know what time
it was?” I asked.

  “No, madam,” she said. “I’ve got a clock, but it wasn’t working till yesterday when me son fixed it. I can tell you it had already got dark. As I said, the children was asleep.”

  “How old is your eldest son?” I asked, noticing a tall, quiet boy who had remained to the side during all the commotion since our arrival except when, without having to be asked, he emptied the dirty water from the bucket I’d used on the windows.

  “Thirteen, madam. He’s a good boy. He’s working with the men now, on the estate.”

  “Farming?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “There’s no other work to be had.”

  “He fixed your clock?” I asked.

  “Yes, madam. He’s handy with such things. His father taught him.”

  “I have been hoping to find a boy who could help with the clocks in my house. We’ve so many of them, and they need to be wound regularly. Do you think he would be interested? The pay would be a bit more than farming, I think.”

  Matilda smiled at me. “I don’t know that the new marquess will much appreciate your taking in his tenants.”

  “He will survive the blow,” I said.

  “Would it really be all right, Lady Matilda? I wouldn’t want to anger his lordship,” the widow said.

  “It will be perfectly fine,” Matilda said.

  “Have the boy come to Anglemore tomorrow morning. The butler will set him up with livery and work.”

  “Thank you, Lady Emily,” she said. “Thank you so very, very much.”

  It was a small thing, really, yet I knew the additional income would be a boost for the family. We had so much and they so little, all due to the accident of birth. My place was to do all I could for them, and it was a duty I would not shirk. I took a last look around the little house and felt a wave of relief followed by a wave of guilt. How lucky I was not to be living here.

  Downstairs

  viii

  The rooms above stairs were something of a shambles after the previous night. The dinner party had gone on and on, and Lily had thought they would never go to bed. The family and their guests had moved from the white drawing room to the dining room and then to the library, and that was where Lily was now, tidying up the mess they had made. Lady Emily trusted her to return the books to the right spaces on the shelves, and at least a dozen were scattered on tables throughout the room. Alice told her that once Lady Bromley had retired to bed, Lady Emily had stood on a chair and recited something Greek about a man trying to find his way home after some long-ago war. The gentlemen were near in tears laughing, and Lady Matilda had threatened them with a sword if they didn’t pay better attention to the poem. Lily was sorry she had missed it, but instead she had seen Miss Fitzgerald’s attempt at kissing Lord Montagu and how he himself had thwarted it. Miss Fitzgerald must have been mortified.

  Mr. Davis had already removed the decanters of port and whisky, and had been kind enough to take downstairs for her the glasses that had been strewn about as well. Someone had spilled something sticky near the fireplace. It was fortunate that it had not left a stain, but she was having a bear of a time removing all traces of it. She was on hands and knees scrubbing when Lord Flyte entered the room, startling her. She dropped her brush and stood up as quickly as she could.

  “I am terribly sorry to have caught you off guard, Lily,” he said. “I really must be more sensitive. I have interrupted you at a bad moment. We made a terrible mess last night, didn’t we?” He looked around the room. “I didn’t realize. I suppose none of us did.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” she said. She hadn’t noticed before that his eyes were so very warm and almost a golden brown color that she’d never seen on anyone before. “Things always look different when you’re in the midst of cleaning them.”

  “I have something for you,” he said. “I hope you don’t consider it inappropriate.” He passed her a slim parcel wrapped in fancy paper.

  “I shouldn’t—”

  “No, take it,” he said. “I insist.”

  Her hands were shaking as she opened it. Inside was a book of paintings and sketches that showed page after page of famous places from all over the world: the Great Pyramids of Giza, the Paris Opera House, the Parthenon in Athens, the Coliseum in Rome. And more. More than she could count.

  “I—I—” She stood for some time, unable to complete the sentence. When at last she found her voice, she looked straight into Lord Flyte’s golden brown eyes. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. Thank you, sir.”

  “I wanted you to have a bit of the world to look at until you can go to all these places yourself. I suspect that when you do travel, your own sketches will put these to shame.”

  “You are so kind,” Lily said, clutching the book to her chest. “I will treasure this, just as I do your painting.”

  “I hoped you would,” Simon said. “I am very pleased you like it.” There was an unusual feeling swelling in his chest. He couldn’t quite identify it, or even tell if it were pleasant or not. It was pressing and prickly and hot all at once.

  “It is the most wonderful thing I have ever owned.”

  “I shan’t distract you any longer,” he said, “but I do look forward to seeing you again.” He made a little bow to her—to her!—before he left the room. Lily was dizzy; her heart raced, and she thought she might faint with pleasure. She put the book down, eager to finish her work so that she might take her treasure upstairs and stow it away somewhere safe. Tonight, and every night after, she would look at each and every page when she was finished with work. Lord Flyte was like no other gentleman.

  This observation rather frightened her. The room seemed to crash around her, the colors too bright, the sounds coming through the open window too jarring. Lily had heard more stories than she could count about how dangerous it could be for a maid to become entangled with a gentleman, no matter how kind he seemed. Nothing good could ever come of it. Lord Flyte had never tried to take liberties, though. Perhaps he was different. Or perhaps he was more patient. She felt her stomach clench, and she wondered if she ought to return the book to him, but she couldn’t bear the thought. If he did turn out like so many others, she would be very, very sad, and then what would she be forced to do? She took a deep breath and started to consider her options, then realized she didn’t really have any. Perhaps that was of no consequence. No matter what happened, she would still have the most magnificent book she had ever seen.

  9

  Matilda and I were in high spirits when we left the widow’s farm. It always felt good to be able to offer assistance to a family in need, and I hoped that bringing the boy into my household would enable him to have a better life and to provide the additional income so desperately needed by his mother and siblings. Service was a respectable occupation, and if he did well, he could eventually become a footman. If he worked hard enough after that, someday even a butler. I would speak to Davis about him. He might take the boy on as a special project.

  That settled, I began to contemplate the lack of candor in what Miss Fitzgerald presented as her alibi for the night of Archibald’s death. She was not telling the truth, or at least not the full truth, and I did not trust her. I wanted to speak to her again, but she was not home when Matilda and I called, so we returned to Montagu to inspect Charlotte’s journals.

  “I have not entirely given up hope that Mr. Scolfield is a bastard,” Matilda said, leading me to her grandfather’s study, “but can Charlotte be the person who proves it?” The room was small, with stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the life of King Arthur. The windows were lovely but did not let in much light, so we lit a dozen candles to illuminate the space. Matilda took a stack of old notebooks with worn leather covers and uneven pages from the desk and handed it to me.

  “It is possible, of course, but perhaps it is best to consider what you will do should you have to accept Rodney as marquess,” I said.

  “I don’t want to admit the possibi
lity. It’s too much to bear.” She looked away from me. She stood up. She sat down. She stood again and walked to the window and back. “He is a decent-looking gent, isn’t he?”

  This stunned me. Surely she wasn’t beginning to warm to her much-loathed relative, even just a bit? I had not mentioned to her my suspicion that our Rodney was not, in fact, the real Rodney. She did not need any false hope. Colin had taken him to London that morning, and we would have confirmation one way or another by the end of the night.

  I decided to ignore Matilda’s question. “Don’t you want to read, too?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the notebooks.

  “No,” she said. “I am too nervous to put together the meaning of even two words in a row. I shall pace instead.”

  Charlotte’s diary began when she was a girl, fourteen years old. The first entries were striking only in how similar they were to what a fourteen-year-old girl might write today, more than two hundred years later. She complained about her sisters, missed her parents when they were away, delighted in selecting fabric for new gowns, and despised her tutors. As she grew older, what she wrote became more serious. Her eldest brother, who would have been marquess, succumbed to cholera in the army, dying when Charlotte was sixteen. Now she stood to inherit, but this was knowledge she found keenly painful.

  On a lighter note, she went on at length about not liking to ride, despite her mother’s insistence on going out at least once daily. How unlike the older Charlotte depicted in her portrait, dressed in her habit, groom on hand with her horse, was this younger girl. She would have deliberately chosen how she would be portrayed in the painting, and would have elected to present herself in a manner she thought was either expected of her or would improve her image. Her diaries, however, offered considerably more insight into her true character.