by Jo Beverley
A hand stopped her rush to the bed. She turned to see Dr. Wallace’s sober face. “I’m sorry, Lady Overton. You are too late by minutes. He has just left us.”
She stumbled over, fell to her knees, and took his still-warm hand. “No. Come back, Digby.”
Then Diana was there, holding her. “Hush, love. It’s over.”
“My dear aunt.” Another hand rested on her shoulder. “Lady Arradale is correct. My poor uncle has gone to his heavenly reward and as Christians, we must be glad of it.”
Rosamunde stared up at Edward Overton. “What are you doing here? You were told to stay away!”
“Not forever. My uncle did not mean that. I feared our distance might be distressing him.”
“Your presence distressed him!” But as she pushed to her feet, sick fears churned. He turned up. Digby died. The marquess had implied strange murders. Poison…
She turned to the doctor. “What caused his death?”
The man shrugged pityingly. “Need you ask, Lady Overton? I have been warning him for years, but he seemed completely unable to be moderate.”
“It was his heart? You’re sure?”
“As sure as a medical man can be.”
She faltered. She’d known this was coming, too, despite every attempt on her part to help him to be healthy. Probably Edward had agitated him into this, but that couldn’t be called murder.
She gently closed Digby’s eyes, accepting the two pennies from the doctor to place on the lids. Then she gathered his flaccid hands and crossed them over his breast. When she bent to kiss his forehead, her tears fell onto his lifeless skin. How fast the spirit fled. She dabbed them off with a corner of the sheet, then pulled it up over his face.
What now? What was she supposed to do now?
Her grief tangled with her horrible moral dilemma. Should she claim her child as Digby’s heir, or conceal it? Though some of the servants must have suspicions, thus far she’d only told her parents. They could be asked to keep silent. She could bear the child secretly, far away…
What would Digby have wanted? If only she could have asked him. She couldn’t think of all this now!
With Digby dead, however, she had to. Within days, the legal wheels would start to turn. If the marquess was right, Edward wouldn’t inherit, but Dr. Nantwich hovered in the wings. By right, Wenscote was now his.
All she had to do, however, was announce that she was with child, and Wenscote would be her child’s, and thus, for many years, hers. Wicked, but oh so tempting.
She looked rather helplessly around the room. Mrs. Monkton was there, weeping into her apron.
“What do we do now?” Rosamunde asked.
“You must not worry about anything, Aunt,” said Edward. “I will take care of all the details. I will look after you.”
No, you won’t, she thought, but kept it to herself. She thanked him for his concern, and led the weeping housekeeper away. “Let me take you back to the kitchens, Mrs. Monkton. I must have a word with the staff, too.”
As they went downstairs, the housekeeper said, “It was fast, milady. That’s one blessing. One moment he was enjoying his dinner. The next, he came over funny and was unconscious.”
Suspicion revived. Food. Unconsciousness. Death… “Did Edward do anything to upset him?”
The woman shook her head. “I wouldn’t say so, milady, any more than by just being himself. Seemed to be trying to be careful, in fact. Even told the master not to eat the fried collops.” She began to cry again. “I’m right sorry about that, milady, but he asked special like! Do you think they killed him?”
“No, no,” Rosamunde soothed, though she was exasperated. Had Digby been sneaking forbidden foods every time she was away from the house? Perhaps the collops had caused his death, but other suspicions would not go away. She must try to confirm or deny them.
In the kitchen, she was met by somber, anxious faces. “Sir Digby has just died,” she said. The maids began to weep. “We should all take time to think about him and recover from the shock. Don’t worry about your work for a while. Why not go out and walk in the garden for a half hour?”
They looked bewildered, but she shooed them all out, even the housekeeper. Alone for a moment, she hurried to the dining room where the remnants of the meal still lay untouched by the distressed servants.
Diana came in. “What are you doing?”
“Not the soup,” Rosamunde muttered. “Edward ate that.”
“What?”
Rosamunde picked up Digby’s plate, still half full of rabbit stew and fried collops. “It’s his second helping, too. I can tell from the amount left in the dish.”
“Rosa, I know you’re distressed, but leave this. Even if he ate the wrong foods, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Oh yes, it does. Go and find Potts. I want witnesses. I’m not mad, Diana. Please.”
With a pulled face, Diana went. Rosamunde considered the wine, but the inch or so left in Digby’s glass seemed clear, and she doubted a potion could be disguised in straight wine. It had to be the spiced stew.
Perhaps she was mad with grief, but she didn’t feel it. She burned with righteous anger. The marquess had implied that Edward’s goose was cooked, but if he’d murdered Digby, she would be sure of it.
Diana came in with Digby’s red-eyed manservant.
“Potts, I want you to watch something, but I also want you to hold your tongue about what happens here. Do you understand?”
“Yes, milady. But—”
“Just observe.”
Digby’s hounds were upstairs, mourning outside his room. Rosamunde went to the one hound left behind, poor old Snapper, too crippled now to climb the stairs. She put the plate in front of her. The bitch lifted her sad head to sniff at the plate, then lurched up painfully to enjoy the treat.
Rosamunde watched as the bitch licked the plate clean then collapsed down again. For a moment, she thought she’d been wrong, but then the animal gave a kind of cough, stiffening. Then another. Then after a few horrible twitches, she died.
Rosamunde knelt and stroked the hound’s bony old head. “I hope you’re chasing rabbits in heaven, Snapper. Or romping with Digby.”
“I’ll arrest the wretch!” Diana declared.
“No.” Rosamunde looked up. “The marquess has plans, and we don’t want to interfere with them.”
“Oh, don’t we?”
Rosamunde shook her head. “Also, I want Digby’s death days to be untarnished. Once he’s in the ground, we’ll see what to do next. You both are witnesses if needed. Yes, Potts?”
“Yes, milady.”
“You’re going to pretend this didn’t happen?” Diana protested.
“Just for a little while. If it looks as if he might go free, however, I have the means to destroy him. Potts, you may go now. Remember, say nothing.”
“Yes, milady, though it will be bitter not to spit at him.”
The man left and Rosamunde put the plate back on the table, ladling the rest of the stew onto it to disguise her act. Then, thinking of something, she tipped the plate to smash on the floor.
“What was that for?” Diana asked.
“In case one of the servants decided to polish it off.”
“ ‘Struth. I think I’ll employ a food taster after this!” Then she came over and wrapped an arm around Rosamunde. “You’re so pale, love. And see, you’re shivering. Come up and lie down. I’ll get Mrs. Monkton to make a possett for you.”
Suddenly drained, Rosamunde let Diana shepherd her up to a spare room, where she slipped off her shoes and lay back on the bed. Diana pulled a thick eiderdown out of the chest and fluffed it over her. She gathered it round gratefully, even though it was a warm day. She lay there, trying to accept the fact that Digby really was dead, that nothing she could do would bring him back.
“Rosa,” Diana said, “I don’t want to bother you, but if you don’t say anything about the stew, what’s to stop Edward Overton from playing havoc here in the next few d
ays?”
“Send for Mr. Whitmore. There are legal ways, I’m sure.” But then it all seemed to break through the shell around her. The death. The baby. The murder.
And Brand. Always, always, the forbidden fact of Brand Malloren. “Brand. It’s his child, too,” she whispered, to the one person who understood. “What am I going to do?”
Diana spread her hands helplessly, and Rosamunde broke into soft, deep tears.
Chapter 23
Mrs. Monkton bustled around making her favorite oatmeal possett for her ladyship, glad to have something to do. If only she’d not made those fried collops!
It was only to be hoped that their suspicions were right and the lady was with child, no matter how that’d come about. Otherwise it’d be Mr. Edward and those Cotterites. There’d be no joy cooking for the likes of them.
She added the ale, wine, and sugar, and set it to stand and cool a little. When she turned from the fire, Mr. Edward was watching. “What are you making?” he asked, quite pleasantly. “I have taken the study of medicines and such as part of my labor for God, so I have an interest in these things.”
“It’s just an oatmeal possett, sir. It’ll steady the lady and give her strength.”
He asked about ingredients and did seem to have some knowledge. When she put the dish on a tray, he said, “Let me take it up. I’m sure you have much work to do.”
For a moment she was tempted, but then she remembered how much the poor lady disliked him. She didn’t need more upset at a time like this, so Mrs. Monkton thanked him and took the tray up herself.
Mr. Whitmore arrived before Rosamunde’s message had found him, for the news was already spilling down the dale like the river. As an old friend of Digby’s, he was much distressed. Rosamunde felt better for the cry and possett, so had energy to comfort him. She offered him a glass of brandy.
He sipped it gratefully. “Such a terrible shock.”
“Yes. Edward is here.”
“He heard so soon?”
“No, he arrived this morning.” It was tempting to share her knowledge with this trusted family friend, but it was better kept quiet for now. “I’m sure he’s pleased he had the opportunity to speak one last time with his uncle.”
The solicitor nodded, but without conviction.
“What is the procedure now, Mr. Whitmore? As far as the running of the estate. Financial matters and such.”
He put down his glass and became businesslike. “You must not worry about a thing, dear lady. I and your father are executors, and can authorize any payments in the immediate. And of course you are provided for through the settlements.”
“When will I have to leave?”
He sighed. “That will depend on Sir Edward, of course.”
Rosamunde started. She’d forgotten that Edward had inherited the baronetcy as well. She couldn’t help a spurt of malicious pleasure. “I don’t think he’ll enjoy the title.”
Mr. Whitmore’s eyes twinkled for a moment, but then he turned sober. “I doubt you would want to stay here, Lady Overton, once the New Commonwealth takes over.”
“No, of course not. When must that be?”
He tapped the table, thinking. “Well, as to that, nothing can be settled in such a case as this until it is proved that the lady is not… er… with child.”
Rosamunde met his eyes. Did he know?
“Of course, it is unlikely,” he said quickly, “but it must always be assumed to be so before an alternate heir is given access to the property.”
Time. Time to think. “How long?”
At that moment, the alternate heir came into the room, pinch-faced. “Aunt, why was I not told Mr. Whitmore was here?”
“I wished to consult with him first, Edward. About my position here, my jointure and such.”
He turned to the solicitor. “I will see to Lady Overton’s welfare.”
“There is no need, Sir Edward—”
“Please!” Edward shielded himself with his hand. “We do not use such titles.”
“Very well, Mr. Overton, as you doubtless know, Lady Overton is well provided for through the marriage settlements. And unless she wishes otherwise, she is entitled to live here until your inheritance is proved.”
“That can hardly take long.”
“Two months, perhaps.”
“Two months!”
“When there is no direct heir of the body, sir, the widow is assumed to be with child until it is clearly otherwise. We must wait for at least two months before you can be given unrestricted access to the property. However—”
“Since there can be no question of a child…” Edward turned to Rosamunde. “Can there?”
“I do not care to speak of intimate matters, Edward, but it is not impossible.”
Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat. “Quite so. Quite so. Two months is not so long, Mr. Overton, and you will be permitted an allowance from the estate in the meantime. For the moment, however, everything must remain unchanged. No property may be bought or sold or substantially altered. No commitments entered into, debts incurred.” He rose to take his leave.
Two months. Rosamunde rose and spoke. “Mr. Whitmore, Edward…” She turned to him, keeping her eyes lowered in case he read the expression there. “Though of course you must stay the night, Edward, I… I cannot feel at ease to have a young, unmarried man in this house for longer than that.”
“Then perhaps you should leave, Aunt. Your family would be pleased to have you.”
“Sir!” protested the solicitor. “Lady Overton has every right to stay in her home until the matter is settled, and you must respect her delicate feelings.”
It was clear what Edward thought of her delicate feelings, but he was balked. “It shall, of course, be exactly as you wish, Aunt.”
As he stalked out of the room, Rosamunde shivered. What now? Would he try to poison her? She would be extremely careful about what she ate tonight.
Edward was no longer the real threat, however. Her poor innocent child was. What was she to do? Once the solicitor had left, she went to sit by Digby’s body, and it took very little thought to accept that she could never claim the child as his. Once Edward was finished, Dr. Nantwich would be the new owner of Wenscote.
She sighed. If she bore the child openly, telling everyone that it wasn’t Digby’s child, she’d never live down the shame. She might take up that burden, but it would be a terrible stain on Digby’s memory, that his wife had deceived him in his last months.
For Digby’s sake, therefore, she must hide the pregnancy and bear the child far away. What then? She immediately thought of Brand, but there was no hope there. Even if he wanted to marry her, they still couldn’t have the child together. This child couldn’t exist without shaming Digby. The only honorable solution was to give the child to others to raise.
The child would not suffer. Only she would. Ah, but it would hurt.
Then there was Brand. He knew about the child. He had a right to some say, but would he fight her over this as he’d fought her that last night in the dower house? What did he care about the honorable memory of a Wensleydale squire?
She covered her face with her hands, drowning in despair. She’d only tried to do her best for Digby, and now her life lay in ashes…
The door opened and Edward walked in. “We are arranging the vigil through the night, Aunt. Do you wish to take part?”
Rosamunde resented Edward taking charge, but at this point she could hardly care. “Of course. I believe Mrs. Monkton will want to take part, and Potts. They are the two here who have been with him the longest. What part of the night do you prefer?”
He gave a little bow. “I will accommodate myself entirely to you, Aunt.”
He really was being too pleasant, but she couldn’t chase after that either.
She summoned the two servants, and after some polite debate, it was agreed that she would take the first watch, Edward the second, Potts the third, and Mrs. Monkton the dawn period.
For the sak
e of the household, she tried to be calm and composed, to attend to all the little details. Still, her mind kept scurrying in destructive spirals of fear and hope, crashing again and again into the fact that Digby was not here, would never be here, would not come in smiling to support her. That a part of her life, her whole adult life in fact, was over, leaving her as alone and frightened as she had felt at sixteen.
Ah, Brand, weak though it is to think it, I wish you were here.
When she heard her mother’s bells, she ran out to greet her, to fall into her warm, sensible embrace. Despite reality, she felt that nothing terrible could happen when her mother was in charge.
By the time she went to sit vigil, Rosamunde felt truly at peace with her situation and her soul. Her mother and Diana were both staying the night, and both had offered to keep her company, but this was a time for her and Digby to be alone one last time.
At first she tried lowering the sheet, but the shrunken gray features didn’t look like Digby anymore, so she covered him up again and sat nearby, remembering him when alive.
Her mind swirled from thought to memory, but then settled into speech. “I suppose I was dreadful sometimes. Sixteen, angry, scared. You gave me Wenscote, didn’t you? To play with. Did you really like the garden? I hope so. And the stud. And the sheep. You probably didn’t want your comfortable life turned upside down by a restless, bitter child. How much of the time did you stay here with me, saying you liked the peace of your home, when you’d rather have been at Richmond races or the sheep fairs at Hawes and Masham? Like a heedless child, I took you at your word.”
She put her hand on the covers that lay over his hand. “Thank you. I hope I made you happy in the end.” She sighed, and spoke what needed to be spoken. “You know everything now, I suppose. I hope you aren’t hurt. I never saw the danger until it was too late, or I would have prevented it. I didn’t know about love like that, you see. Oh, that sounds wrong, too. I did love you. I do.” She brushed away some tears. “You can read it in my heart.”
She tested her own heart, and was at peace. She had loved Digby. Everything she had done, except perhaps for that one wicked night, had sprung from her love for him. Her love for Brand took nothing away.