Robert nodded at Giles and passed out of the room. Phoebe kept her gaze steadfastly on her lap. In the periphery of her vision she saw Giles approach. He did not sit, although Robert had left the chair conveniently placed. The silence lengthened.
“Phoebe!”
It was tensely said, a wealth of feeling in the one statement of her name.
She could not prevent her eyes from rising to meet his. The green orbs were shadowed with fatigue. Or was it emotion? A pang smote her bosom.
“You look dreadful.”
He grimaced. “I feel it.”
“You had best sit down before you fall down.”
Aware her tone was grudging, Phoebe watched him drop into the chair, heavily, as if he were burdened with the weight of the world. A flash of memory struck her. Thus had he looked when first he had come to her after the death of his mother. Her heart ached. Had he truly loved Tamasine after all?
“You are hurting, are you not, Giles?”
It was not at all what she had meant to say. Nor had she dreamt of softening her tone towards him. He nodded dumbly, and Phoebe experienced a shaft of hatred for the mad girl. She wanted to rake her nails down that china doll of a face. The realisation brought her up short. Where was her dignity? It had lain in the dust long enough, had it not? She hardened her heart.
“I dare say you will get over it in due course.”
A flare at his eyes brought the old Giles back for an instant. Then it faded. He lifted his hands in a hopeless gesture and Phoebe was shocked to see a tremor in his fingers.
“I deserved that perhaps.” He drew in a breath. “No, not perhaps. I did deserve it.”
“It was not meant to flay you, Giles.”
He bit his lip. “Then it should have been.”
Another silence fell. Phoebe felt as if her heart cracked aloud and she had all to do to remain quiescent in her chair. She did not know whether she wanted to slap him or throw herself into his embrace. Both probably. How dared he come to her in such a guise? Bemoaning his lost love and abasing himself in a fashion as lamentable as it was unnerving. Never before had she seen him lose his assurance so completely. Phoebe could not endure it.
“Don’t do this, Giles!”
His brow furrowed. “Do what?”
“Scourge yourself as if you have broken the Ten Commandments. For heaven’s sake, stand proud!”
A mirthless laugh escaped him. “Proud? After what has passed? I’ve been fifty kinds of a fool.”
“You have indeed, but that is no reason to bow your head and beg for my sympathy.”
His eyes flared again at that. “I’m not begging for sympathy!”
“Then what are you doing, may I ask?”
He flung up off the chair. “Begging for forgiveness, you impossible female! Or I would do, if you would not take up such an intransigent attitude.”
Phoebe was likewise on her feet. “What attitude did you expect? I’ve been humiliated, assaulted and cast aside like an old glove. By rights I ought to beat you about the head with a footstool!”
“Well, do it then! I don’t care what you do to me, if you will only cease behaving like a tragedy queen!”
“Tragedy queen? How dare you!”
All control gone, Phoebe swung her arm, her hand flying towards his face. Giles caught her wrist and held her off, glaring with a violence to match her own.
“No, you don’t, you little shrew?”
“Let me go, you brute!”
“Never in this life!”
She let out a strangled scream of rage, trying to wrench her arm away. For an eon the issue hung in the balance as she struggled against his iron grip. Then a tide of colour overspread his features.
“What in hell’s name am I doing?”
He let her go so suddenly that she almost fell. Giles stepped forward and caught her. Phoebe froze in his clutch, her heart leaping like a scalded cat.
“Phoebe…”
It was guttural. Instinct told her what it meant, but the fleeting thought was overborne as Giles jerked her hard against him and set his lips to hers and the world exploded.
Sensation was all she knew for a while and she came adrift at last with her heart singing and her eyes opened to a wild look in Giles’s eyes as they seemed to devour her face.
“Phoebe, I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
Did not know his own heart? But she did not ask, a hushed expectancy warning her that words alone would never serve the moment. She brought up one hand and brushed his lip with her finger. Then she smiled at him.
“You know now.”
Leaving her spouse and Patrick in the front parlour, Ottilia penetrated to the nether regions of the establishment, following Cuffy, who had let them in, and walking boldly through the green baize door and into the usual rabbit warren of corridors that comprised the servants’ quarters.
Discovering her on his tail, the footman turned, exhibiting some degree of astonishment. “You wish for something, madame?”
Ottilia smiled. “Indeed I do. Pray be good enough to conduct me to Mrs Whiting’s room.”
Cuffy hesitated, but she stared him out and at length he nodded without comment and turned to take the lead. Ottilia recalled the stillroom as she passed from the last time when she had inspected Mrs Whiting’s books, although she could not remember the precise route. Noise and chatter from the kitchen reached her, along with the aroma of spices, coffee and the inevitable smell of half-cooked vegetables.
The housekeeper was at her desk, writing in a ledger and looked none too pleased at Ottilia’s invasion. Forestalling criticism, she got in first.
“I trust you will not object to my calling upon you here, Mrs Whiting. I have been requested by Mrs Delabole to discover anything I can to shed light upon the mystery of Sir Joslin’s death.”
The housekeeper humphed and set down her quill in its receptacle on a china ink stand. “I don’t recollect as you needed anyone’s permission at the off, my lady.”
Touché! But Ottilia let it pass, calmly taking possession of a chair set by the wall and bringing it close enough to converse. The place was cramped, the inevitable locked cupboard taking up the bulk of the available space. The desk was little more than an aged writing bureau and a comfortable cushioned armchair took prominence near the door, a footstool before it and an occasional table to one side.
Ottilia set her chair between the footstool and the desk, beginning without further preamble. “Would you object to telling me more of your erstwhile mistress? I mean Tamasine’s mother Florine.”
She was quick to note the tell-tale flutter of a couple of fingers where Mrs Whiting’s hands now rested in her lap, the moistening tip of a tongue catching at her lower lip.
“What did you wish to know?”
A good question. One could hardly give utterance to the uppermost thought. Ottilia tried an oblique approach, albeit touching on the meat of the matter. “I gather she was eventually found to be too prone to mischief to be permitted to roam abroad.”
A snorting laugh escaped Mrs Whiting. “Mischief? You could call it so. Yes, we had to shut her away. For her own good as much as anyone else’s.”
“As you did Tamasine the other night?”
The woman flinched. “How do you know that?”
“Come, Mrs Whiting, let us be frank. The girl is deteriorating, is she not? Is it the transition to this country, do you think? Or the unsettling events that have occurred? I cannot imagine it has been anything but deleterious to have her in such an excitable state.”
The housekeeper let out her breath in a whoosh. “You have no idea! If only the Master hadn’t died and we’d not to bring her to England, I could’ve kept her calm in the places she knew. We had to put her back in the attic last night and all, for she went off into one of her fits when Mrs Delabole tried to reason with her.”
Ottilia could not but feel sympathy for the aunt, thrust into a situation of which she was fairly ignorant. “What happened?”
>
“I scarcely know. It were all chaos by the time I got into the dining parlour, which is where it all started. There was Master Roy, who had grabbed hold of young Tam, and what with her screaming the way she does and Miss Ingleby screeching at Master Roy, and poor Mrs Delabole with her hands over her ears and looking bewildered, I can tell you, ma’am, it was a right do.”
“It sounds so indeed. Did you not at once call for Hemp? He seems to be eminently capable of controlling Tamasine.”
“Yes, but Hemp wasn’t there, for now Master Jos has gone he’s the only one who can drive the carriage and Lomax sent him for supplies, what with the company augmented beyond our expectations and Cook threatening to give notice. I tell you, it took Simeon Roy and Cuffy both to get Miss Tam up to the attic and I had the devil’s own job to get a dose into her too.”
The housekeeper’s unusual garrulity spoke her anxiety more than the creases of concern in her face. Ottilia knew not what to say to mitigate the horrors of an evidently painful scene. But she need not have been concerned for Mrs Whiting sighed with a sound of defeat.
“It’s a nightmare, ma’am, the whole thing. God knows what’ll happen now! With Master Jos gone, and this Mrs Delabole with a numerous family of her own and vowing she can’t have Tamasine in the house upsetting her own brood. Not that I blame her after last night, for she’s a mother and she’s to think for her chicks. But what’s to become of the poor child, that’s what I’d like to know?”
“Indeed.” Relieved at the woman’s access of sudden confidences, Ottilia took immediate advantage. “How would you have managed her in Barbados?”
“Put her in the same house we kitted out for the mistress. She’d the run of the place, and as long as I kept the dosage up, she weren’t too much trouble.”
“You had charge of her?”
“She’d a couple of slave minders in there with her, but I supervised it all, yes.”
The moment seemed propitious. Could she probe now? “Mrs Whiting, is it true that Florine attacked Sir Joslin?”
There was no mistaking the sudden fury in the woman’s eyes. “Who told you?”
Ottilia ignored this. “You see, Tamasine seems to be under the illusion that the position was reversed. She seems to believe Sir Joslin had a hand in her mother’s death.”
She had expected a scornful rebuttal. It did not come. The housekeeper eyed her, chewing her lip the while. Ottilia waited, and was rewarded.
“The child’s confused. Likely she’s been fed such lies.”
Ottilia’s mind took a leap. “By Simeon Roy?”
Now the scorn came, evident in a curled lip and a cold stare. “He’d say anything to gain a point. Foolish boy! To think he could make a wife of the girl. Did he suppose Master Matt had not tried it before him? Aye, and failed miserably. I could have told him, for I’ve seen her worsen as the years have gone by, just like her ma.”
“You were with Florine before she married Matthew Roy?”
“Me and Lomax both. We come with the property. I knew the mistress from a child.”
“That’s why you were detailed to care for her needs?”
“I knew how to do. Been doing it for years.”
The woman was well softened up now. Ottilia dared to probe the mystery at the forefront of her mind. “Mrs Whiting, there is one other thing I meant to ask you.” She paused, letting the tension grow as the housekeeper’s expression became wary. “It is about the Flora Sugar confections.”
“Confections?”
Was that a flash of fear? Ottilia dug in. “I found them in Sir Joslin’s drawer.”
“Ah, yes.” A faint breath. Relief? “He was fond of those. We brought packets and packets with us.”
“And you feed them to Tamasine?”
“Why shouldn’t she have them? Little enough pleasure she has as it is.”
Ottilia pounced. “What about those large ones? The laudanum sweets?”
Was it a faint look of alarm in the woman’s eyes? To Ottilia’s chagrin, a commotion in the corridor beyond cut off the interview. Voices were raised, and the door swung open in a bang. Hemp looked into the room, his face grim.
“Miss Tam has escaped, Mrs Whiting.”
“Oh, mercy me, here we go again!”
Mrs Whiting leapt up with alacrity, waddling purposefully into the corridor as Hemp vanished from sight. Ottilia followed more slowly, cursing the ill timing of this interruption. Hemp was ahead, pounding towards the hall, Cuffy in pursuit and the housekeeper steaming along behind. None paid the least heed to Ottilia in the rear.
She reached the hall behind the rest and caught sight of Francis looking towards the green baize door, his gaze anxious. She waved and he pushed through to her side.
“Thank the lord you’ve come back! The place is in uproar.”
Her spouse did not exaggerate. Mrs Delabole was standing just in front of the bookroom door, looking bewildered. Hemp and Cuffy were deep in discussion, but Miss Ingleby overbore the male voices as she rounded on the housekeeper.
“I told you not to let her out too soon. Did you not give her the laudanum last night?”
“Of course I gave it to her,” snapped Mrs Whiting, defending herself with vigour. “She was half asleep by the time I took her to her chamber.”
“Then she ought to be sleeping still.”
“What did you want me to do, give her enough to send her into oblivion like the master?”
The companion lifted a hand and dealt the woman a violent blow across the face. Mrs Whiting cried out, backing off and throwing a hand to her cheek. Mrs Delabole uttered an outraged gasp and started forward, as did Ottilia, but both were forestalled by Hemp, who strode up to the companion and shifted her bodily away from the target.
“That is enough, madame. You know well Miss Tam can get out if she wants.”
“Not from the attic, she can’t.”
Hemp was not deterred by the irritation in the woman’s voice. “She cannot be left all night in the attic, madame. I will not allow such cruelty.”
“You will not allow? Who made you master here?”
“I am master of what happens to Miss Tam, madame. You know well she is left in my care. It is a sacred trust. I made a promise to my master.”
Hemp did not raise his voice, but the determination was steel strong.
Miss Ingleby tossed her head. “Your promise! I can’t think what Mr Matt was about to entrust the girl to a slave.”
“Entrust the girl to a slave?” came an echo from Mrs Delabole, her eyes round.
Hemp’s tone became charged with fury. “I am no slave, madame. I am a free man. I am here by my own will. None but Miss Tam has a claim on me.”
“Hemp!” The warning came from Cuffy, interposing his bulk between the companion and his fellow. “You keep your temper, boy. More important we find Miss Tam now.”
The young footman was breathing heavily, his gaze fixed on Miss Ingleby. Ottilia watched with interest as he visibly reined himself in, the fire dying out of his eyes. He turned to his colleague.
“Mister Simeon?”
Cuffy shook a grizzled head. “He is not here. He took his carriage.”
Hemp came swiftly alert. “The curricle?”
“Maybe he took Miss Tam for drive?”
Miss Ingleby re-entered the lists, turning on the hapless housekeeper once more. “There! That is where your inefficiency has led us. Taken her for a drive? I wish it may be so innocent. That fiend means mischief, I’ll be bound.”
The unfortunate Mrs Delabole’s voice cut in, high and quavering. “What sort of mischief?”
Miss Ingleby turned on her, her tone vicious. “With Simeon Roy, you may be sure it is the worst possible mischief.”
Ottilia was attacked with a rise of sympathy for Tamasine’s aunt. She looked both confused and distraught, and no wonder. She put up her fingers to her cheeks, her tone one of complaint.
“I don’t understand any of this. Is he not fond of his cousin?”
The front doorbell clanged.
Mrs Delabole threw up her hands. “Is this him now perhaps? Oh, dear, I wish I had not come.”
No one moved for an instant, every pair of eyes turning to the door. The bell clanged again.
“Is no one going to answer it?” Francis demanded in an exasperated tone.
For the first time, Ottilia noticed her brother, who crossed to the front door as the bell sounded once more. As he threw the door open, two figures appeared in the aperture, all too well known to Ottilia. She made for the door but Patrick got in first.
“Boys? Good grief, what have you done now?”
“Not us, Papa! It’s them!”
This was Tom, but the elder of her nephews pushed past his father and plunged into the mêlée in the hall, closely followed by his brother. Both were red in the face and panting. Ben sought Ottilia’s gaze.
“We came for Auntilla!”
“We ran all the way!” gasped Tom.
“From the Dower House?”
“No, Auntilla. The church … in the village.”
“He’s got her! The fellow she likes!” Ben managed.
Silence swept through the hall as the implication hit. Ottilia broke it. “Are you talking of Tamasine?”
“The madwoman, yes. He’s got her!”
“Simeon Roy?”
Patrick came from behind and seized his elder son by the shoulder. “Ben, talk sense. What’s the fellow doing with Tamasine?”
The boy gulped in a steadying breath. “We heard the man say he’s got a licence,” he produced. “They’re going to be married.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
By the time Francis fetched up at the village church, the ceremony was already under way. Putting a finger to his lips, he stole quietly into the dark interior, Patrick at his heels. Miss Ingleby had wanted the footmen to go, but he had scotched that plan at birth.
“Let us waste no time in argument. Hemp and Cuffy are worthy fellows enough, but you will scarcely deny that my presence on the scene is likely to have more impact with the parson.”
The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3) Page 28