I will write at greater length but for now, I remain
Your old friend,
Tony Lattimer
Chapter 2
Rupert sauntered into the morning room, where she sat over the household account book.
“Why so glum, Jane? Pining for the curate? He’s an uncommonly well-set-up fellow, for a member of the clergy, and I noted how long he spoke with you after church last Sunday. Our papa will be mad as fire if you betroth yourself to him when you could have accepted Pleasaunce. If you gave him any encouragement, Charles might renew his offer. You hardly spoke to him last night.”
“ ’Tis the household accounts that occupy my mind, not suitors. My sums never come out the same twice, and we have been spending a good deal more than usual. And I was not uncivil to Mr. Pleasaunce.” She was not going to discuss Charles Pleasaunce, or his suit, or suitors in general. She did not like to be reminded of Charles Pleasaunce’s courtship. He had always been courteous and sometimes witty. He was tall, possessed regular features, and dressed elegantly. Many young ladies must hope to win his affection. Jane had not permitted herself to form a tendre for him, as he had evidenced no particular interest in her, and why would he? She was only Rupert’s half sister, prim, quiet, and unremarkable. Then her uncle had informed her and her papa and stepmother that she was his heir. They had assumed she would inherit something from him as his only living relative, but it had been imagined to be no great amount.
“Who would have thought it would be so much, when he lives in such a poor neighborhood?” Stepmama had inquired, rhetorically. “He dresses well enough, to be sure, and I have heard he frequents the theaters and various places of amusement, but he might do as much on no more than £1,000 a year.”
Or even on £500 a year, Jane thought. Elvira had an inflated notion of how much money was necessary for comfort.
“You will be sought after by fortune hunters,” her father had warned. “It would be unwise to let it be widely known. When some gentleman shows an interest in you for yourself, it will come as a pleasant surprise to him that you are worth as much as £5,000 per annum, or more.”
She believed it was not common knowledge. However, her stepmother might have told someone and had discussed the matter in Rupert’s hearing, and her father had certainly mentioned it to his friend, Paul Pleasaunce, Charles’s father. Why else would Charles suddenly begin to press his attentions upon her? His ardor had not been real: the tenderness of his tone did not match the cool, appraising expression in his eyes. She had come to dislike him, not because he wished to marry an heiress but because he pretended to be interested in her rather than her anticipated fortune. Papa had been quite angry that she had refused his proposal. Rupert continued to mention it: he was a devoted follower of Charles, who was two or three years older.
“Father will have to increase the kitchen budget. As much entertaining as we have been doing, we’ve been spending a good deal more than usual.” Their entertainments were not large ones, for the house did not possess a ballroom, or a dining room that could seat more than two dozen at dinner, but a succession even of rather small dinner parties, card parties, musical evenings, and impromptu dances did run into money, not only for food and drink, but for beeswax candles, flowers, and musicians.
“We could hardly insult Claire’s family and our friends with inferior refreshments and drink.”
“No, indeed. But it does mean more expense.”
“You should ask your uncle for money.”
“There is no reason Uncle Markham should be expected to pay for our dinners, Rupert.”
“Father will be surly as a bear to hear you want more to spend on food, when he has so many other expenses just now. Markham can well afford it, and you are his heir, after all. He cannot have many calls upon his purse, living like a tradesman as he does.”
She levelled a gaze at him where he slouched in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, turning his carnelian seal ring on his finger. Her half brother, blond and very handsome, took after his mother. At the moment, his expression was peevish, yet another resemblance.
“If I were willing to ask him for money, I’d use it for a new gown or two.”
“You should. You looked like a country cousin at the Montforts’ rout. I was ashamed my sister showed herself so ill dressed. I wonder he hasn’t noticed what a figure of fun you look.”
Rupert was hardly likely to have noticed it until his betrothed pointed it out.
“Like most men, he probably doesn’t pay any attention to female fashions. And he probably expects my father to support me. I won’t ask him for money.” Before Rupert could continue to argue, she said, “He mentioned seeing you leave a ship a few days ago. Whatever took you to the docks?”
He sat up straight and stared at her. When he stammered, “The docks? Whatever would I be doing on a ship?” Jane knew he had been in mischief of some sort.
“That is what I wanted to know,” she said casually.
“He must have been mistaken. Did you think I was going to run away to sea? As a cabin boy, perhaps?” he demanded with an unconvincing laugh. “I hope you haven’t repeated this ridiculous charge to anyone else!”
“Of course not. No doubt you are correct, and my uncle was mistaken. He has only seen you a few times.”
Rupert soon excused himself, leaving Jane to speculate upon what peccadillo might take a young man of three-and-twenty to visit a merchant ship. A gambling debt, she concluded. She would not have expected a ship’s officer to frequent the same gambling houses as her brother, but perhaps they met at some low entertainment or sporting event. No wonder Rupert was worried about Papa’s probable response to a request for more money, if he had had to pay Rupert’s debt.
****
Rupert was petulant for few days, and no wonder, she supposed. She should not have questioned him about his activities. Young men were so quick to take offense at a sister’s questions. Then he recovered his normal temper, so he must not be in serious difficulties.
“You are wanted in the master’s study, Mistress Jane,” Wilson announced.
Given the butler’s formality, she must be in disgrace, but though she ran through the day’s events to deduce what had annoyed him, she could think of nothing. Unless Rupert had complained about her? No, if he had, he ran the risk of his visit to the docks coming out. A gambling debt was forgivable, even if Papa were furious at the amount, but Rupert would not want him to know his debt was to a merchantman’s captain rather than a gentleman. Their father considered Uncle Markham had lost all claim to gentility by engaging in business, which even his sizable fortune could not make respectable. Importing the luxuries everyone wanted, like China silks, Persian and Turkish rugs, figs, coffee, chocolate, wines, and she knew not what else, did not seem shameful. Now, if her uncle had owned and managed a coal mine, or been an ironmonger, Papa’s objection would have been more understandable. She herself would not have cared.
No, likely it was no more than a complaint about last night’s soup. Admittedly, it had been made from the remains of the previous day’s meat and vegetables, but what could Papa expect, given the amount of money she was allowed for the household?
Her father was not alone. A thin, graying man of unfashionable habits—his stockings were rolled over the bottom of his breeches, in the old way—obviously of the professional class, stood with her father. That was unexpected. So also was her father’s expression. She had anticipated irritation. Instead, he was grave. They had not risen at her entrance; they had already been standing. That too seemed strange.
“This is my daughter, Jane,” he said. “Jane, Mr. Harris is Mr. Markham’s solicitor.”
“Mistress Jane, I regret to inform you your uncle is dead.” But he looked less regretful than stern.
She could only stare at him. The world seemed to have come to a stop around her, though she could still hear the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
“I beg your pardon. I should not have told you
so abruptly. Perhaps you should sit? Please permit me to offer my condolences.”
“Yes, sit down, Jane.”
She edged her way to the nearest chair, feeling as if her knees might fold before she reached it. But even once she was seated, they remained on their feet.
“How can he be dead? He was in robust health last week. If he was ill, why was I not sent for?”
“Some digestive upset came on very suddenly last night. It may have been the result of a gift of shrimps he received and the cook served for his supper.” The attorney’s eyes were sharp as gimlets. “If you have other questions for me, I will attempt to answer them.”
“I suppose I must arrange the funeral, but I know very little about such matters. Can you advise me?”
“It will not be immediately necessary, Mistress Jane. There will be a coroner’s inquest first.”
Her father said nothing.
Jane stared at the solicitor. “Why?” She had never heard of any inquest in their circle of friends or acquaintances.
“Mr. Markham’s doctor was not quite satisfied with the course of his illness. Given his patient’s previous good health and sound digestion, he could not readily account for the death. No doubt the shrimps were tainted, but as your uncle was the only one to eat of them, and none were left to examine…”
“Digestive illnesses are not uncommon,” her father said finally. “Even fatal ones.”
“That is true. But as I said, the doctor was not easy in his mind, and so the matter must be sifted.”
“When will the inquest be held?” Stowe asked. “I will attend it so I can inform my daughter of the findings. There can be no need of Jane’s attendance. Such affairs are unsuitable for ladies.”
“You will be notified of the time and place,” the attorney replied. “If the coroner feels it necessary to have Mistress Jane’s testimony, she will be summoned.”
Tears sprang to Jane’s eyes. She blotted them with her handkerchief and attempted to bid farewell to the departing Mr. Harris in a seemly manner, but the tears would keep breaking forth.
She could not believe he was dead. How could it be that she would never see or talk with her uncle again? When Mrs. Merry asked what sort of cake she wanted for the next day, Jane came near to saying she did not give a hang. But of course, she had to care about it. In compensation, the necessity of giving the cook instructions, making sure the maids had aired the bedding, and inspecting the pantry occupied her for much of the day.
Elvira debated at tedious length whether to furbish up the black gowns she had had made for the death of her mama several years ago or to order new ones in the current fashion, and what degree of mourning was appropriate for the merest connection—only her stepdaughter’s uncle, after all. Unable to endure it any longer, Jane changed into a slate-blue casaquin jacket and skirt, the closest thing she had to mourning. She liked the style, but what an ugly color! Her stepmother had chosen it. Probably the material had been a bargain because of the dull hue.
Elvira, catching sight of her as she went out to purchase caraway seed for seed cake, called after her, “Jane! Tomorrow you must visit the seamstress to have a suitable gown made. It’s only right to show respect for your uncle, as he has left you his money.”
Which is to say, to show respect for his fortune, she thought. Her uncle would have said something of that sort, and they would both have laughed. The numbness was beginning to wear off, and she foresaw that she would miss Roger Markham bitterly. She tried not to think, more than I would miss my father. Shocking to admit even to herself that Uncle Markham seemed closer to her than Papa. Were all fathers stern and distant? Papa certainly took an interest in his sons, though he was strict with the two younger ones. Rupert…Rupert was allowed too much license, in spite of Papa’s growls when he ran up debts. Rupert and she were not close, although she had been fond of him when he was a child. She had had less contact with the younger boys. Papa ignored her for the most part, and her stepmother could always find something to criticize in her appearance or behavior.
The exercise was welcome. She was out of hearing of the servants’ well-meant but painful comments and of her stepmother. Alone with her thoughts, she could reflect on her loss and fortify herself against grief. At home, she could only escape by shutting herself in her bedchamber and then someone would come to ask instructions or see if she needed anything, or to demand, as Elvira would, why she was sulking in her room.
Uncle Markham had taken an interest in her, supplying the affection she missed in her immediate family. He was—had been—her friend as well. None of the daughters of her family’s friends were more than acquaintances. The ones her age were married and settled into domesticity; the unmarried ones were younger than she and silly. She had nothing to contribute to earnest discussions of childhood ailments and their treatments or arch speculation about eligible bachelors, many of them younger than she, and as bland and inane as the young ladies just released from the schoolroom. And they all took themselves and their concerns so seriously! It was her uncle’s sense of humor she would miss most.
Was everyone’s grief only for their own loss? Uncle Markham must be in heaven—for she did not believe God kept account of petty sins, or if He did, surely there was a column of good deeds and kindnesses that might outweigh it.
A voice at her shoulder murmured, “Mistress Jane Stowe, I think?”
Taken by surprise, she stopped short and turned to face a man with a lean, humorous face, not handsome but very engaging. His clothing was good but not rich; he might be almost any sort, from prosperous tradesman to a nobleman of simple tastes. His voice was unquestionably that of a gentleman.
Chapter 3
“Forgive me for accosting you in the street, but there were reasons I could not call upon you at your home. Quite apart from the impropriety of a strange man visiting an unmarried lady,” he added.
“Are you a strange man?” The question popped out before she could stop it; something about him made her want to smile.
“So I’m told. May I carry your basket so I appear to have a legitimate reason to walk with you?”
“You can’t simply go up to a respectable female and…and…” Words failed her.
“Yes, I can. Besides, we were introduced by Lady Montfort.”
“Were we? I don’t recall it.” She would have. This outrageous creature was quite unlike the punctilious men she was accustomed to meet.
He smiled. “Alex Gordon, at your service. I am not surprised you have forgotten my presence as well as my name, considering the crush of guests at that affair—and so ill assorted, too—”
“Were you one of them?” She failed to suppress a smile, for the Montforts’ invitations tended to be rather indiscriminate, and Lady Montfort did have some very odd relatives.
“Let us agree I was, Mistress Jane. It will make things so much easier.” He had somehow gained possession of her basket. “Shall we continue?”
“As you have my basket, Mr. Gordon, I think we must.”
He nodded and became serious. “In the normal course of things, I would have been introduced to you at your next visit to Mr. Markham. Let me say I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. But what is—was—your connection to my uncle?”
“He wrote to an old friend of his who is…dear me, how complicated this is to explain…who is connected to certain government offices. Mr. Markham believed he would know to whom to refer the matter of your half brother going aboard a ship whose captain is believed to be at best a smuggler. He—”
“What would ‘worst’ be, sir?”
“A pirate?” he suggested flippantly.
“Then I suppose I can understand why Uncle Markham asked me if I knew why Rupert would be visiting the ship. A pirate would be a very undesirable acquaintance. But why would my brother’s visiting the ship be of interest to my uncle’s friend?”
“Captain O’Brien is believed to have been carrying on trade between France and the Isle o
f Man, with, no doubt, stops in Scotland and Ireland.”
“So he is a smuggler as well as a pirate?” That seemed more respectable than being a pirate. “I have things to buy in this shop, Mr. Gordon. I won’t be long. Will you wait for me here? I am very interested to know how this concerned my uncle.”
“With the greatest pleasure, mistress.”
Jane hurried through her purchases and returned to find the very odd Mr. Gordon chatting amiably with a pair of chairmen, Caledonians both. Jane noticed with some surprise that Gordon seemed to have a faint Scottish burr although she had noticed no sign of it earlier.
He tossed the men each a coin and turned to take Jane’s basket, offering her his arm at the same time.
“There is a great deal of smuggling, I believe, Mr. Gordon. And while my uncle was a man of principle, I shouldn’t think he would be greatly worried about brandy or tea that had paid no tax. Particularly as he was no longer in the importing business.”
Most Secret Page 2