He nodded. “Mrs Whiting has gone.”
“Did you arrange that?”
His gaze remained steady on her face. “It is what you wish, milady, no?”
“Just so. I admire your foresight.” He did not answer, but turned to unlock the door. Ottilia put a hand on his arm to detain him. “One moment, Hemp, if you please?”
He paused, looking a question. She smiled. “When we are done here, would you object to coming out with me for a few minutes?”
His gaze narrowed. “More questions, milady?”
“A couple of matters you might help me with.”
He said nothing for a moment, eyeing her as if he debated within himself. Not unhopeful, Ottilia waited. Abruptly, he nodded, dropped his gaze to the door handle and turned it, gesturing for her to go in ahead of him.
Tamasine was lying on the four-poster, her feet dangling over the end, twitching as she watched them, counting aloud. “One, two, buckle my shoe. Six, ten, a big fat hen. Eighteen, fourteen, maids a-courting.” Her head turned, and the beatific smile appeared. “That’s me. Maids a-courting.”
“That is certainly true,” said Ottilia, moving towards the bed.
She noted Hemp shifting to a corner. He had locked the door behind them. It occurred to her he must be long practised at effacing himself since the girl did not trouble to acknowledge his presence. Tamasine sat up in a bang, clapping her hands as the sing-song chant began.
“Lady Fan, Lady Fan, Lady Fan.”
“Tamasine, Tamasine, Tamasine,” echoed Ottilia, and was pleased to note how the game sent the child into an explosion of giggles.
She dared to sit beside the girl. Tamasine grabbed her near hand and squeezed it so hard that Ottilia winced.
“Not so tight, my dear, if you please.”
Tamasine’s bright eyes gleamed and the pressure increased. Ottilia bit her lip to stop herself crying out.
“Miss Tam!”
The girl’s fingers opened abruptly as she jerked round. Released, Ottilia cradled her hand, unable to withstand a hiss of pain. Tamasine leapt up and ran to the footman, lifting her fists and beating at his chest, squealing the while. He neither spoke nor moved, making no attempt to stop the assault. It was over in a moment. Tamasine desisted, laughed and flung her arms about his neck. She rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
“See, Hemp, I do love you.”
“I know, Miss Tam. You be good now, huh?”
Like a child, Tamasine slipped her fingers from his shoulders to cradle his cheeks. “I’ll be good. Don’t be cross.”
“Never with you, Miss Tam.”
Watching, Ottilia experienced a little jolt of sadness. The poignancy of the moment caught at her. Here was this creature, lost in a maze of unreality, unable to control her every impulse of behaviour. Yet there was an instinct of genuine affection for the footman. She remembered Hemp protesting she could be loving.
Her thoughts faded as the girl came running back to the bed. “Let’s play a game.”
Ottilia seized on this. “Yes, let us. I am going to ask you something, and you see if you can answer.”
Excitement shone in the blue orbs. “Yes, and then I shall ask.”
She understood turn and turn about? So much the better. A game must disguise Ottilia’s purpose. “I shall start.” Ottilia pretended to think. “I know. What colour is your hair?”
“Sunshine.”
“What an excellent answer.”
A shriek of glee escaped the girl. She clapped her hands. “My turn!”
“I am ready.”
“Lady Fan, Lady Fan, Lady Fan.”
Ottilia was thrown for a second. Best to take it as a question. “Yes, I am Lady Fan.”
Another shriek. “You are, you are!”
Ottilia held to innocuous questions for a few more turns, noting Tamasine’s rising excitement at each answer, whether or not it was appropriate. When she felt the girl was sufficiently involved not to note the change, she dared the question she had in mind all along.
“If the reckoning is not yet done, what is still to do?”
The child quieted on the instant. A hushed feeling entered Ottilia’s breast. Had she miscalculated? The stare was intense, but there was no trace of malevolence on this occasion. She waited.
The answer came on a whisper of breath. “Mamma.”
Ottilia knew not how to proceed. She dared not speak, for fear of saying the wrong thing. She regarded the girl without, she hoped, showing any reaction, hoping for more.
Nothing came. A veil appeared to descend and Tamasine’s eyes went blank. They closed and she sank slowly to the bed.
Alarmed, Ottilia looked across at Hemp. “Is she…?”
She hardly knew what she wanted to say. Was it a swoon? Had the child lapsed into coma? The footman walked swiftly to the bed and leaned a little to look at the girl’s face. His eyes lifted to Ottilia’s. He moved away from the bed and beckoned Ottilia to join him.
“She is unconscious,” he murmured low. “It will pass in a moment.”
She matched his level. “Does she do this often?”
“You touched something, milady. She cannot face reality. There are moments when she is lucid, but they are few and have this effect.”
“Then she does have vengeance in her mind.”
Hemp shrugged. “I do not think she understands the concept. If so, it is twisted.”
That, certainly. But Ottilia was not convinced of Tamasine’s ignorance. At her core, she knew, even if she was incapable of vocalising the notion to make sense of it.
“Lady Fan, Lady Fan, Lady Fan.”
Ottilia turned. The child was up again, as bright and apparently carefree as before. She scrambled along the bed to her pillows and dug underneath the mound. Grabbing at an object, she tugged it out. Then she was off the bed, dancing to Ottilia’s side. She was clutching a flat wooden box of Tunbridge ware, with a pretty inlaid design on the lid, of stars and crescents. A child’s toy. Tamasine opened it up and held it out to Ottilia.
“You may have one, if you like.”
A rush of heat cascaded into Ottilia’s chest and her mind buzzed. Within the box lay a quantity of thick paper-wrapped rolls, each about three inches long, and emblazoned with the Flora Sugars emblem — the missing sweets.
Her mind afire, Ottilia waited for Hemp to close and lock the door behind him. She was just going to speak when he set a finger to his lips. A whisper reached her.
“Not here, milady. Miss Tam’s hearing is acute.”
He led her into the main corridor, taking a path towards the back of the house. Within a moment or two, he stopped, opening a door to one side. An anteroom was revealed, furnished with a set of inlaid commodes and a long mirror with an open door leading off through which Ottilia glimpsed the edge of a four-poster. An unused dressing room? A musty smell pervaded the place and the shutters were closed.
Hemp went across and opened them, revealing the back view from the Court. He remained standing by the window, half silhouetted against the light. He was so still Ottilia began to wonder what he was thinking. Was he apprehensive about her questions? He surprised her, coming to life and turning suddenly to survey her.
“You have worked it all out, I think.”
Ottilia eyed him. “All but a few details, I believe, with which I am hoping you may be able to help.”
He was looking in her direction but his position made it impossible to see his expression. Ottilia moved to the other side of the window. He watched her gravely, but did not speak. It struck her she was more nervous than him. She drew a steadying breath.
“You told me Florine Roy attacked Sir Joslin, but you did not tell me why?”
Was that a faint sigh? “It is not a pretty tale, milady.”
“That much I had deduced from the hint you gave me last time.”
He was silent for a space. Then he seemed to relax, leaning against the edge of the shutter and folding his arms across his chest. “With Madame Flor
ine’s malady there was a need not shared by Miss Tam. She is too innocent. Madame Florine was not innocent. She tried with Master Jos what she had tried with black slaves, to no avail. None would dare take this chance. A black man would be hanged for taking advantage of a white woman.”
Ottilia was conscious of a sensation of kinship with her mother-in-law’s abolitionist views. She refrained from any word of sympathy, judging that Hemp would take it amiss.
“I did wonder, when you said her story was that he had raped her. Sir Joslin was unresponsive, I take it?”
He nodded, and Ottilia noted the careful restraint in his face. Was this one aspect of the dead man’s character he did not regard with sympathy?
“Madame Florine seized up a knife —”
“A knife! How is it possible she was allowed near any such implement?”
The black brows pulled together. “She escaped.”
“Like Tamasine. The similarities do rather leap to the eye.”
His frown deepened, a trifle of confusion coming in. Ottilia did not enlighten him as to her full meaning.
“What happened?”
“Madame Florine chased Master Jos into the sugar factory where they make the loaves. There are many sharp implements for trimming the sugar.”
“Chased him? From where?”
“He found her in the canes and was seeking to return her to her house. She tried to — to interest him. When he refused, she seized a cut cane and began to beat at him. Master Jos was never strong. He ran, looking to seek refuge in the factory. The mistress cut him badly before slaves came at the noise and pulled her off.”
His story ended, Hemp dropped his gaze to his folded arms, avoiding Ottilia’s eye. She studied him, the burgeoning of conviction seeping into her mind.
“How long was it after this event that Florine died?”
Comprehension came into Hemp’s eyes. Had he made the same leap?
“It was a matter of days, milady. We all thought it was connected, but nothing could be learned to prove anything at all. And the master was too distressed to pursue the matter.”
“Yes, I suppose that was inevitable.”
“May I ask what is in your mind, milady?”
Ottilia smiled, prevaricating. “I’m not sure. But on another matter, how old was Tamasine when Simeon Roy first attempted an abduction?”
The flash of rage startled her and he straightened, his arms dropping, his fists clenched. “She was a child! Barely sixteen. I wanted to kill him.”
His voice was raw with pain. The urge to offer words of comfort was strong, but Ottilia could not afford to waste time. Besides, she was by no means sure she had any comfort to offer. The ideas revolving in her head were unlikely to alleviate Hemp’s distress.
“How was the plot foiled?”
“Miss Lavinia realised what was afoot. She went to the master directly.”
“Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,” Ottilia quoted.
Hemp’s mouth twisted. “That is not for me to say, milady. There was much argument between Master Jos and my master, who wanted to send her packing.”
“He thought she had neglected her charge?”
“Everyone on the plantation knew of the liaison between her and Mister Simeon. They were not discreet, and the slaves see everything. Besides, they quarrelled loud enough to wake the ghosts.”
“Did Tamasine know of it?”
A harsh laugh escaped the man. “He told her, milady. He has no shame, that one. He encouraged her to think she might cut out her companion if they ran away together.”
“She confessed all this to you?”
“Miss Tam has no understanding of secrecy. Besides, she has always spoken her mind in my presence.”
Ottilia could not refrain from offering a crumb of comfort. “I must own I believe she is sincerely attached to you, if to anyone.”
Hemp’s complexion deepened in colour and his voice became gruff. “As I am to her.”
“Yes, I have no doubt of it.” Could she press for the truth now? Did he trust her enough? “Why did you stop me earlier in the hall, Hemp? Why did you not wish me to speak of that matter?”
Hemp’s head came up, pride in every line, and the harsh note returned. “It is not for Mr Simeon Roy to know how matters stand.”
“Yet he had Lomax hunt for some paper that might prove your claim. Lomax found it, and perhaps destroyed it, for all I know. I am sorry if this ruins your hopes, Hemp.”
A faint smile surprised her as his pose relaxed a little. “It does not matter at all, milady.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“I am not dependent on proof. Mr Lomax does not know of it, but Master Matt made his dispositions before he died. He took care of me.”
Ottilia sighed out a breath. “You cannot imagine how relieved I am to hear that.”
“Master Matt knew that above all things I craved independence. I have presented my credentials to his lawyer here in England. I can leave here at any time, milady.”
“Then you stay only for Tamasine.”
Hemp’s jaw clenched. “I gave my word.”
Ottilia watched his face, a shaft twisting in her breast for the agony she detected there. She spoke softly. “What will happen to her, Hemp?”
At that, a choked breath escaped the footman’s throat and his shoulders sagged. “That is the question which is killing me, milady. I don’t know what to do for the best.”
“You believe the day is coming when she will have to be wholly confined like her mother?”
He did not hesitate. “Yes, milady. It is what I dread. Sometimes, even I have difficulty in controlling her. I know how to keep her sweet, but if she is enraged…”
It was troubling Ottilia also. But not for the same reason. The dread she had hardly dared acknowledge rose up. She would dearly like to confide in Hemp, but until she had tangible proof of what she now believed to be the real explanation for events at Willow Court, she preferred to keep her own counsel. Yet she might relieve the fellow in one small way.
“I cannot help but sympathise with your plight, Hemp, but allow me to say that I wholly admire your unswerving loyalty to your little sister.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Simeon knew, of course,” Ottilia told her audience from her stance by the mantel. “As did Lomax. Indeed, I imagine the only person who is ignorant of the relationship is Miss Ingleby.”
Sybilla, comfortably ensconced in her corner of the sofa nearest the fire, was looking stunned and Francis shocked. Patrick, not much to her surprise, took it in his stride, his profession giving him insights into human frailties alien to those living in the exalted world of the aristocracy.
He leaned a little forward in his chair opposite the dowager and addressed her in a voice of calm reason. “I understand that colonial life is a good deal freer than our own, ma’am.”
Sybilla snorted. “Don’t you believe it. Raising a bastard son is common enough in our society.”
“But not permitted to grow up alongside his legitimate sister,” put in Francis, who had taken a seat next to his mother.
“These are especial circumstances, Fan,” Ottilia cut in. “Though I think it unfair of Matthew Roy to saddle the poor man with the burden of Tamasine for the lord knows how many years. She is only two and twenty, after all.”
“And her future is bleak.”
“True, Patrick. Mrs Delabole’s determination to avoid responsibility notwithstanding, I believe the whole lot of them will be involved for some time to come. I can’t blame Hemp for being at his wit’s end. Not to mention Miss Ingleby and Mrs Whiting.”
“Well, if Roy succeeds in eloping with the wench, they may count themselves well out of it.”
Ottilia eyed her spouse. “You think that would serve, Fan?”
“Oh, I know you believe the fellow capable of making away with her once he has secured her inheritance, but it strikes me as fanciful. Why her and not Sir Joslin?”
“I did not say he was no
t capable of wishing ill upon Sir Joslin.”
“But you don’t think he killed him, nor arranged for it.”
Guilt caught at Ottilia and she was tempted to confess the ramifications now settled in her mind. Before she could decide, Sybilla cut in.
“We all know the child could not have carried out her cousin’s bidding. The only thing she understood was the promise of marriage.”
“Who said anything about the child? If Lomax was in cahoots with Simeon Roy throughout, as Tillie suggests —”
“I don’t believe Lomax would or could carry out a cold-blooded murder. Truly, Fan, can you see such a weaselly fellow putting his own life in jeopardy?”
Francis looked struck. “I had not thought of that.” He slapped a hand on his knee. “You mean to tell me after all this we are no further forward in the matter of who administered the opium to Cadel?”
Ottilia hesitated. The gradual change of heart had crept upon her these last days and she had said nothing as yet. Was this the moment to speak? Was she ready to face Fan’s inevitable fury? She waited too long.
“Tillie, I know that face. What the devil are you concealing now? Come, out with it.”
Suppressing a sigh, Ottilia capitulated. “I’m afraid I have altered my mind. It was not murder.”
“What?”
Francis’s brow grew black and the dowager visibly jumped.
“Have you run mad, Ottilia?”
Only Patrick refrained from comment, though he looked rather hard at his sister.
She returned her gaze to the thundercloud on her spouse’s face. “I believe it was an accident.” He was speechless, but his eyes expressed his thoughts. Ottilia hurried to explain. “I say that, but I do not mean a murder was not committed. One was, a long time ago. Sir Joslin was a victim of the residue of that murder.”
The thundercloud was superseded by confusion. “What do you mean, Tillie, for pity’s sake? You are talking in riddles.”
“We ought to be used to that,” came in acid tones from Sybilla. “After all this, you now tell us the fellow was not done away with?”
“He was done away with, but it was not meant.”
“Tillie!”
She gave him a deprecating smile. “I sound as cryptic as Tamasine, I dare say.”
The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3) Page 31