Behind the Shattered Glass

by Tasha Alexander

  By the time Charlotte turned twenty-one, her opinion of riding had reversed itself. Now she was spending as much time as she could on her horse, and I wondered what had catalyzed the change. That became evident in an entry dated 7 August 1779.

  His name was Pearce. He initially appeared in the diary after having shown Charlotte how to better adjust her stirrups so that she would be more comfortable in her saddle, and then wasn’t mentioned again until 25 October, when Charlotte described, in rapturous tones, how he came to her rescue when she lost control of “the evil beast Mother had forced upon me” and was thrown from the animal’s back. Pearce was a groom in the family’s stables. When the errant horse returned riderless, he set off at once in search of his master’s daughter, and found her, bruised and scared, in a far-flung spot on the grounds.

  From that day, Charlotte could not spend enough time on her horse. Her parents, she reported, were greatly pleased and encouraged her. They even went so far as to insist that Pearce accompany her after the accident until she felt right in her saddle again. As the savvy reader will have already surmised, Charlotte was not about to admit to feeling comfortable any sooner than absolutely necessary. By mid-November, she no longer mentioned Pearce by name, referring to him only as “My P.” Her happiness was contagious. I felt buoyed reading her joyful accounts of long mornings spent with her love.

  “You’re grinning,” Matilda said. “What have you learned?”

  “Come.” I took her by the hand and all but dragged her across the house to the portrait of Charlotte. “She was madly in love with her groom when she was twenty-one. I think this is he.”

  We both leaned close, wanting to get a better look at the figure in the background.

  “He was tall,” Matilda said. “And strong. Look at the hold he has on the reins.”

  “Handsome, too.” I was on my tiptoes and starting to lose my balance. I pulled a chair in front of the canvas and stood on it. “I cannot make out the color of his eyes.”

  Matilda took something out of a table drawer and climbed onto the chair, holding me around the waist to keep us both from falling. “Magnifying glass,” she said and held it up in front of the groom. “Pearce. I wonder what became of him.”

  “This was painted when she was twenty-five,” I said, noting the date on the brass plaque on the picture’s frame. “He must have stayed in her employ.”

  “What other option did he have? They could not bear to be apart,” Matilda said. We were both giggling like schoolgirls. “Unless she scandalized society and married him?”

  “No,” I said. “First because it would never have been allowed at the time, and second because he is depicted as a servant. Had they married, he would have been her equal.” I jumped down from the chair. “Who did she marry?”

  “I cannot say I recall,” Matilda said, “but it would be easy enough to find out. I’ve got all the genealogy at the ready.”

  We returned to the study. Charlotte, Marchioness of Montagu, had married Sir George Reynolds in 1780. “A pity it could not have worked out better for her,” I said.

  “Keep reading,” Matilda said. “If she had Pearce in her portrait in 1783, the affair could have gone on for ages. Sir George may have rarely troubled her. He undoubtedly had a mistress of his own.”

  “I would like to keep reading,” I said, “but I fear I must get back to work. May I borrow the diaries?” Charlotte had been prolific; there were seven volumes.

  “Of course, so long as you promise to tell me everything about the divine Pearce.”

  “You may depend upon it,” I said. “Can you imagine if she had lived in a different world, one in which ladies could marry whomever they wanted, even if that meant a groom?”

  “That, Emily, is too radical a concept even for me to consider.” She walked me to the front door, where my carriage was waiting. Just as we stepped outside, Rodney rode up on my husband’s favorite horse.

  “Good day, ladies,” he called, lifting his hat. “What a pleasant surprise to find you both here.”

  “I cannot say the same about seeing you,” Matilda said. Her voice was sharp, harsh even, but I detected the slightest hint of color in her cheeks.

  “Boudica, don’t be cruel.”

  Matilda bristled but made no comment about the name. “To what do we owe the disgrace of your presence?”

  “Must I justify a visit to my own home?” he asked, his eyes lingering on his cousin’s face longer than strictly proper. For a moment, I felt as if I were the intruder, stumbling into a private scene, but I dismissed the notion as nothing but foolish. Still, I could not deny that Matilda’s eyes had rested as long on Rodney’s as his had on hers. All at once she snapped out of what I could only imagine was a trance and spoke.

  “You are infuriating.” She turned on her heel before marching back into the house without another word.

  “You have your work cut out for you, Rodney,” I said. “I do not know how you will ever convince her to accept your role here.”

  He slid down from his horse and passed the reins to a waiting groom. “I like nothing more than a good challenge, Emily.”

  “I’m surprised you’re already back from London.”

  “Only just,” he said. “It is approaching seven o’clock.”

  “So late? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “A good book will do that.” He nodded at the leather volumes in my hand.

  “Quite,” I said. “I’m off home. Shall I see you there soon?”

  “I think I shall dine with my energetic cousin. She keeps trying to goad me into fencing with her, but I thought I would try something more civilized first. If, that is, you take no offense to me abandoning you and Mr. Hargreaves?”

  “Matilda is the one who may take offense. I can only wish you luck.”

  *

  The sky had gone dark and the air chilly by the time I reached Anglemore, and the soft light emanating from the windows warmed me even before I stepped inside. No home could be more welcoming, and I reveled in this knowledge for a moment before continuing on my way. I was eager to interrogate Colin on his day’s work. Was Rodney Scolfield who he claimed? First, though, I went up to the nursery, kissed my dear boys, and had just started down the stairs when I ran into my mother coming up them.

  “I am not entirely certain Lord Montagu is the sort of person one ought to welcome as a houseguest,” she said, her voice low and serious, worry etching itself on the lines of her face which seemed to grow deeper by the minute.

  “Have you only just come to that conclusion, Mother?” I asked.

  “He is a man of extremely strange habits. And his valet?” She looked around as if it mattered whether anyone else heard her next words. “He is a Red Indian.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “He has pitched a tent next to your stables.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Does that cause a problem for you?”

  “It is unthinkably bizarre. What will people say?”

  “He presents himself well enough. I saw him the other morning. He is a handsome, proud man. Davis tells me the servants like him and that he is a hard worker. At any rate, I don’t see how it is any of our business. If Lord Montagu is content with him, we must be as well.”

  “But, Emily—”

  “You must excuse me, Mother. I have not yet seen my husband since he returned from London.” I gave her a little kiss and continued on my way, listening to her sputter as I left. I was, perhaps, somewhat more amused by this than I ought to have been. Some things cannot be helped. Colin, as I expected, was in his study when I found him, bent over a chessboard and looking rather confused.

  “I don’t remember leaving it this way,” he said.

  “You didn’t.” I wrapped my arms around his waist. “It was mate in five. I solved it after you left this morning.”

  “Dreadful girl.” He covered my face with kisses. “Show me what you did.”

  “Not until after you tell me what you learned in London.”<
br />
  “I am afraid you will find it a crushing disappointment.”

  “He really is Rodney Scolfield?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Colin said. “We lunched at the Travellers. Not only did seven members recognize him and come speak to us, there was a photograph of him from the New York Herald displayed in one of the rooms. It had been taken when he set off on an expedition to the North Pole.”

  “The North Pole?”

  “He made it no farther than the Yukon,” Colin said. “The paper identified him in its caption, and there can be no mistake. The man in the photograph is the man we know as the new Marquess of Montagu.”

  I sighed and flopped down onto a chair. “I suppose it was too much to hope otherwise.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Whisky?”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

  “What did you learn today?” he asked.

  “Miss Fitzgerald lied about spending the evening of the murder at a farmhouse, and in the eighteenth century the Marchioness of Montagu had a passionate affair with her groom.”

  “Did she?”

  “I’m reading the torrid details in her diary. It is rather titillating.”

  “What are you going to do about Miss Fitzgerald?” he asked.

  “I shall go into Melton Carbury tomorrow and see what I can learn about her.”

  “I am still troubled by the coincidence of Miss Fitzgerald and Rodney Scolfield having met before his arrival here,” Colin said.

  “What other explanation could there be? Without, of course, slipping into dangerous speculation.”

  He propped his long legs up on his desk. “It could be there isn’t one, but that doesn’t sit right with me. I should like to speak with the vicar tomorrow. Will that interfere with any of your plans?”

  “Not in the slightest,” I said. “We can ride to Melton Carbury together.”

  He dropped his feet to the ground and sat up straight. “Heavens. You and your passion for riding. I don’t need to be worried about any of the grooms, do I?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “No?”

  “Of course not.”

  He went to the door and locked it, a delicious glint in his dark eyes. “Prove it.”

  *

  I slipped out of the study more than an hour later, my hair undone and my face flushed as if it were the hottest day of summer. Marriage truly is the greatest delight in life. “Dinner will need to be pushed back another half an hour, Davis,” I said, not meeting his eyes as I passed him in the great hall.

  “Yes, madam.” If he noticed the state of my appearance, he made no visible show of it. “These wires have arrived for you.”

  “Thank you.” I removed them from the silver tray he presented with as much dignity as I could muster and turned to go up the newel staircase, a showcase of Elizabethan wood carving, half tempted to laugh, half tempted to run in embarrassment. If marriage is the greatest delight, a discreet butler is perhaps the greatest necessity after the right husband. “Could you please send Meg up as well?” I cringed at the thought of her inevitable reaction to the state of my hair.

  “Lord Almighty, Lady Emily,” she said when she entered my room. “What on earth have you done to yourself? It’s as if some sort of animal had at your hair.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “I see that sly smile. It was Mr. Hargreaves, wasn’t it?”

  “Meg!”

  “I thought you’d be pleased that I’m used to him now.”

  Meg, who had been with me from the time I made my debut in society, had taken a rather long time to adjust to my being married to Colin. Philip and I had only lived together for a short time before he died, so Meg had never before really had to deal with a husband. For more than a year after Colin and I wed, she had tiptoed around him, all but refusing to come into my room when he was there. Now that she had accepted him, she was wont to go overboard on occasion. Not that I minded. Her candor was refreshing. “You are impossible, Meg, but I simply could not do without you.”

  “What is milady going to wear tonight?” she asked.

  “I don’t mind. You pick something.” I had opened the first wire, from a gentleman in France, an old friend of the Scolfield family, with whom Archibald and Mr. Porter had stayed during their time abroad. His words were brief. The boys had stayed five nights. Nothing unusual happened. The second was from an innkeeper in Munich. He asked if I had access to a telephone and, if so, would it be possible to arrange that I ring him? This piqued my interest. We had no telephone at Anglemore, but Colin had one installed in Park Lane the previous year. Although I had numerous misgivings about the device in general, I rather liked the idea of making a call to Germany and decided to speak to my husband about it before dinner.

  The third wire was from Mr. Porter’s aunt. She asked if I could possibly make my way to Dover, as there was much she would like to discuss. I was halfway through mentally planning a trip to London and then Dover when I noticed Meg standing in front of me waving two dinner gowns.

  “No opinion, then?” she asked. “If you don’t pay better attention, I may put you in a morning gown. Or perhaps a riding habit.”

  “Yes, that’s fine, Meg,” I said, hardly hearing her. She laughed, and I knew I was in the most capable hands.

  Downstairs

  ix

  Pru was dragging a basket heaped full of potatoes to the kitchen when Lily came downstairs. “You ought to lift that,” she said. “You’ll leave a mark on the floor.”

  “What do I care about the floor?” Pru scowled.

  “You’ll care when you’re the one up late cleaning it.” Lily flounced past her into the servants’ hall, ready for a cup of tea, pausing only for a second when she saw Lord Montagu’s valet, the tall Red Indian, sitting quietly in the corner of the room. She couldn’t decide if he scared or fascinated her. In the end, she determined to choose fascination over fear and asked him if she might sketch him. He obliged, and she sat on a chair across from him, pulling out the pad and pencil she kept in her apron pocket.

  There was time for her to do this because Lord Flyte’s gift had given her the energy of ten ordinary maids plus two, and she had finished her work quicker than usual, leaving her with a quarter of an hour before she needed to go upstairs and prepare the dressing rooms again. They would all be getting ready for dinner now, she thought, and she pictured Lord Flyte in his evening kit. She was glad she worked in a house where the footmen wore livery. Otherwise, she might think the gentlemen looked rather too much like the servants. This made her smile.

  “You’re awfully pleased with yourself,” Alice said, bringing a pot of tea into the room and putting it on the long table. Her face was strained and pale.

  “What’s wrong?” Lily asked, stopping work on her drawing.

  “Rotten day,” Alice said and lowered her voice. “Johnny and Pru.”

  Lily looked at the Red Indian. He nodded, understanding, and rose from his chair. He crossed the room and sat again, this time near the fireplace, far enough away that the girls might speak freely without being overheard.

  “No, that can’t be right. Why would he like her when he could have you?” Lily put her drawing materials away and filled three cups from the pot, proffering one to the valet before sitting down with her friend. “What you need, Alice my dear, is a nice cuppa tea.”

  “He has no interest in me because he can do whatever he wants with Pru.” She was whispering now, not wanting the valet to hear her. They had offered him tea, but he declined.

  “Even Pru wouldn’t be that foolish.”

  “She is.” Alice spooned sugar into her cup. “One of the other grooms saw them in the stable. He’d just put the carriage away after collecting Lord Flyte from the train station.”

  “Just because they were in the stable together doesn’t mean—”

  “They were caught in the act.” Alice flushed crimson.

  “Well, they’d better hope Mr. Davis doesn’t ge
t word of it,” Lily said. “He’d send them both packing in a heartbeat.”

  “It won’t happen,” Alice said. “No one will say anything because everyone likes Johnny. All the grooms, that is. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of him anymore.”

  “More likely the grooms want what Pru’s offering.” Lily took her friend’s hand. “If they rat him out, she would go, too. I’m so sorry, Alice. You deserve better.”

  “Quite right I do,” she said. “But what about you? You look as if you could fly today.”

  “I’ve had a present,” Lily said, leaning close to Alice and keeping her voice a whisper. “When you’re in our room next, take a look. It’s in the top drawer of my dresser.”

  “Is it from whom I think?” Alice asked. She took Lily’s blush as a yes.

  Pru was watching them from the corridor, full of hate for Lily. Eavesdropping might be a sin, but sometimes a body had no other options. She knew what she needed to do next, and the evil look that heathen Red Indian was throwing her way wasn’t going to stop her.

  10

  Meg had laced me so tightly I could hardly breathe, let alone even consider bending over. The effect justified it, however, as since the twins had been born there was no other way to squeeze me into this, my favorite shell pink silk Worth creation. It pained me to recall the death of the greatest clothier of the century, Charles Frederick Worth, the previous year. His sons had proven again and again well capable of continuing their father’s standards of design and innovation, but I would miss the man himself, with his exacting opinions and flawless taste. I had started wearing more and more Liberty Gowns—my mother was continually criticizing my steps towards Rational Dress—but I would never want to entirely abandon the delicate beauty of haute couture. I adored tonight’s gown, with its pointed corselet bodice and a skirt narrower than had been seen in years. Best of all, the grotesque voluminous sleeves of seasons past had at last deflated, their replacements long and almost skintight.

  Colin had come upstairs, changed into evening kit, and gone back down in less time than it had taken Meg to finish retaming my unruly hair, and I wanted to speak to him privately before Simon and my mother joined us in the drawing room. I did not find him in the house, but a helpful footman directed me outside, where he was discussing something with one of the grooms. I pulled a wrap around my shoulders and went off in search of him. The stables, behind the house and to the east, formed a large compound situated around a courtyard. The stone buildings provided ample space for our horses as well as room above to house the grooms. I stood back some distance, before he had seen me, and watched him. His every move was an exercise in elegance. Adonis would have wept in shame to be compared with such a man.