I was outdoors this morning in the wind. Three trees on the boundary. I need to go to Town for fittings. Why am I so tired?
There was more in this incoherent vein, and occasionally a sensible sentence would spring out at Evelyn.
I spoke to Doctor Epsom today. He recommended fresh air and a change of scenery. I went to Town to visit Martha and now I feel much better.
The next day there was no entry, and the next was more impenetrable observations.
Bad weather. Rebecca talked about the fairground. I feel frightened. I want to go home.
Evelyn scrolled down the page, seeking any information that would tell her what stage of her life this was. She guessed it was her last year – Mrs. Brook had suggested the countess had changed a great deal, becoming more and more reclusive. She scanned the next few pages, and then found what she was looking for.
I went in the carriage today. I feel better. It is strange how my spirits lift sometimes. Little Barrett went with me. He is such a spirited boy! He rode horses at the Everidge Estate and beat young Clarence, who is eight – a full year older. Lady Everidge praised him well.
So Barrett was seven. Evelyn sighed. It was exactly as she had thought. This was the last year of the woman's life. She turned another page, then another. The entries grew shorter, the handwriting more spidery.
No milk at breakfast. I am tired. When will the rain stop? I want to go outside. Rebecca said the daffodils are flowering.
Doctor Epsom visited. He said I should rest. My head aches. Where is my nightgown?
I wish my head did not hurt so. I am frightened. Richard visited and brought Barrett. He is such a comfort to me.
That was the last entry. The ink trailed off and smudged toward the end, almost as if the lady had fallen asleep while holding the pen, or her hand had rested there, blurring the ink while wet. Evelyn stared at the page, blurred now by her sudden tears. The fact that her last words were about Barrett was more moving than Evelyn could express. I wish he knew how much she loved him, Evelyn thought.
She closed the book and sat holding it, feeling that it was something precious. It was. It was all that remained of that beautiful, gentle lady. Her caring spirit, her sense of fun, her love of beauty and her joy in her child. They were all bound up in this slim leather-bound volume. It contained her soul, as surely as her body had, a relic.
Evelyn felt moved to stroke her hand down the leather cover. Reverently, she hid it under her clothing in the chest. Then, feeling suddenly faint, she sat down on the bed.
She looked at the clock. It was past midnight.
No wonder I am tired, she thought. She hastily changed out of her own clothing, wishing she could call Sutton to help her with the fastenings, but she could not risk anyone knowing she was awake. Besides, she wanted the time alone with her thoughts.
As she slipped between the covers and blew out the bedside candle, she found her mind whirling with disjointed images. Lady Brokeridge, riding. Barrett, a sturdy toddler, walking past his mother in the garden as she smiled at him. Lady Brokeridge in the carriage, visiting friends. In the garden, watching the roses grow. In the bedroom, writing. She could not stop thinking of the poignancy of the last entries, the way the woman's mind had slowly altered, her character changed until she was alone, ill and frightened.
I need to know what happened to make that change. Without knowing that, how will I know if she took her own life? Only Rebecca, her maid, would know. Evelyn had to find her.
As she dropped off to sleep, she resolved to visit Tallinn House and find Rebecca, the maidservant. It was the last piece of information she needed. Her dreams were disquieting and miserable and she woke restless, but resolved. She would find Rebecca.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FINDING MORE CLUES
FINDING MORE CLUES
The next morning dawned with a light drizzle of rain. Evelyn slid out of bed and reached for her night-robe, feeling a strange sense of resolve fill her. She was decided. She would not let whoever was responsible for Lady Brokeridge's death make her afraid. She felt almost as if the lady herself was beside her, encouraging her in her quest. Far from being a menacing, disquieted presence, Evelyn felt as Mrs. Brook had said – that Lady Brokeridge would have liked her.
Evelyn felt saddened, thinking of the lady – she felt as if she knew her, both from the painting and her words. Lady Brokeridge had died afraid and alone. Evelyn had no intention of going out the same way.
“I won't let it happen again. Not to me, not to anyone.”
“Beg pardon, Lady?” Sutton asked, appearing suddenly in the doorway.
“Nothing, Sutton,” Evelyn said with forced cheerfulness. “I was merely commenting on how much better I feel. I wouldn't wish that malady on anyone,” she said lightly.
Sutton nodded. “You do seem to have been quite unwell, my lady,” she said cautiously. “Though I am pleased to see you well.”
“I am pleased to be well!” Evelyn said firmly. They both laughed and the woman brushed her hair.
Later, dressed in a white muslin day-dress with an elegant lace-trimmed neck, her hair arranged in a close-fitting up-do so that her white bonnet might pass over it, white boots on her small feet, Evelyn walked downstairs to breakfast.
Twenty minutes later, she and Barrett were in the carriage into town, Evelyn in her bonnet and gloves, Barrett in a dark coat with a top hat framing his lean, firm-chinned face.
“I am so pleased to have your company today, my lady,” he said, brown eyes sincere. “Though I trust you will be safe walking about Chelsea alone?”
“I will be well,” she insisted firmly.
Nevertheless, Barrett insisted they drive there first so that he could help her out and see her safe near the theater. Biting her lip, Evelyn let the carriage take her further out of what she thought was her way, and then stop just outside the theater, where she had not the slightest intention to go.
“Mr. Preston?”
“Yes, My lady?”
“Could you return at ten?”
“Midday would suit you better, surely?” Barrett raised a brow. “I will be at the club for dinner. I shall only leave at around one of the clock.”
“Ten suits me,” Evelyn said, insistently but politely. At least then she would only have to spend half an hour wandering about in the street before she could ask Preston to take her to Tallinn House.
Gathering her coat tight about her against the gust of cold wind, Evelyn waved at the carriage and then headed off into the street.
The theater was in a beautiful area of town, and Evelyn found herself one among the many fashionable people walking along the pavement or stopping before the high arches of the theater door, admiring the marble and the inscriptions above it. She could smell the savory scents of pastries and the richness of coffee and chocolate drifting from open doors. Somewhere, a quartet played.
Everything was so relaxed and genteel that Evelyn felt herself slowly relaxing for the first time in weeks. It is so...ordinary! Her life had become increasingly strange over the last weeks and the sudden normality of cafes and parties, of coaches and ladies and babies in perambulators was suddenly so strange and so comforting all at once.
I should forget about this murder, Evelyn thought crossly to herself. It happened years ago, and I am ruining my present happiness because of it. What business is it of mine if Lady Brokeridge was murdered, anyway?
The moment she thought it, she realized how foolish it was. It was imperative for her to discover who had brought about Lady Brokeridge's death, and why and how. If she was to be the next Lady Brokeridge, she had to know.
Am I to be the next Lady Brokeridge? It seemed a logical conclusion – she had basically promised herself to Barrett, and he had all but proposed. Besides that, all the servants had stated their opinion quite clearly the night of the ghost appearance: they already considered her Lady Brokeridge.
But do I want to be?
Evelyn felt her heart sink. She liked Barrett. S
he even loved him. However, the more she thought about it, the more she realized she did not trust him. In addition, she absolutely did not trust his father. She was almost entirely certain the man had murdered his own wife to increase the Brokeridge fortune. And there is nothing stopping him murdering me to do the same thing.
“Does my lady want a dish of tea?” a man called out from a cafe door. He was smiling and friendly, and Evelyn, feeling shaken and alone, made a decision.
“Yes, thank you. That would be very nice.”
She followed the proprietor into the cafe and perched on a wrought-iron chair, looking about the delicately-wallpapered, scented space. Her tea, when it arrived, was in a fine bone-china cup and the scent was complex and inviting. She drank it, feeling herself relax for the first time in weeks. At least here, among perfect strangers, she was safe!
She listened to the genteel chatter of the people around her, the clink of spoons on cups as tea was stirred, the proprietor taking orders at the counter. She also heard the same music she had heard earlier – evidently the quartet was in the rooms next door to the cafe. The tune was wistful and winsome and raised all the questions and thoughts Evelyn had tried to forget.
I do not want to marry Barrett. I fear his family too much. Besides, do I love him?
She sighed. Would she ever meet anyone with whom she would fall in love? Did she even know what that felt like? As she thought it, she knew she did.
I love Bronson. The very thought of him was pain, and not only because there was no way she would be able to marry him: now she would never see him again. Bronson has gone. Alexandra had said so. He had gone missing just after she left, and no one knew where he was. He had thought she was angry with him. He had thought she loved Barrett and was angry with him.
She sighed. What choice was there then, for her, Lady Evelyn, but to become Lady Brokeridge and Barrett's wife?
And if I am to marry Barrett, I have to know the truth. For my own safety.
With that, her resolve returned. There was no way out of this except forward. Forward led her to the Tallinn mansion, and to the next set of clues.
After thanking the proprietor, she stood and left.
Outside, the street was still cold, the wind rising. The carriage had arrived, mercifully, when she returned to the theater, and she was pleased when Preston hailed her and jumped down to assist her.
“Home, milady?” he asked genially.
“No, Preston. I think I will visit Tallinn House. I have a friend, Lady Alexandra, who is staying there.” It was a small lie, but a forgivable one – Alexandra could have been staying at Tallinn House and often did. Evelyn just happened to know that she was not there at the moment.
Preston looked surprised. “If you say so, milady. It's not far from here.”
“I know,” Evelyn said as he helped her into the carriage. She smiled. “I think I will be an hour or two. If you could return at midday and take me home?”
“Of course, my lady.” Preston inclined his head in a polite bow and pulled himself onto the seat at the front of the carriage. “Off we go!”
They set off at some speed through the streets. Evelyn was glad of the solid Clarence coach, as anything else would have either been too cold or too slow – with the nice bulky carriage, the rest of the traffic tended to move out of the way and allow them passage straight through.
When they arrived, Evelyn alighted and waved to Preston. She noted he didn't go back. Probably visiting his wife, she thought, smiling. It was a pity they did not both have work at Brokeridge Manor.
She walked up the front steps of the large townhouse and knocked at the door. It was exactly as she recalled it from her childhood. Standing there now, she thought about Euphemia Tallinn, and how this had been her home. She felt a shiver crawl down her spine. Euphemia had been an ordinary society lady, no different to Evelyn herself, really. She had died and lived in terror in the house where Evelyn now stayed. It was an appalling thought. For the first time, Evelyn wanted to solve the mystery for her as well. If ghosts were the unquiet dead, then Brokeridge House must be haunted by Lady Euphemia. She wanted to let her find peace finally.
“Good morning?”
“Good morning,” Evelyn said when the butler answered the door. She stood straight-backed and confident, feigning an assurance she could not really feel. She had no business calling at Tallinn House, and no pretext whatsoever to interview their servants. She would have to talk her way in somehow. “I am Lady Evelyn, the daughter of Liam, Lord Donnelly? I would like to call on Lord Tallinn, if he is in?”
“He is,” the man said gravely. “I shall see if he can be disturbed. Pray do come inside and wait.”
He stood back and gestured Evelyn to the small antechamber she remembered from her childhood. The same gilded wooden chairs with their red cushions, relics from a previous era, stood there, facing the elaborate mantelpiece with its gilded wooden decoration of the Tallinn coat of arms – a bewildering thing featuring a sun and a man either sowing a field or digging a hole. She remembered giggling about it when she and Alexandra were children, trying to guess what the story of it was. They never did know.
“My lady?”
“Yes?” Evelyn asked. The man was back, and seemed friendly.
“His lordship can see you now.”
“Good,” Evelyn smiled, though she was shivering. Now she would have to make up some excuse for visiting Lord Tallinn. And what will he think if he finds out who I am lodged with while I am in town? Swallowing hard, she followed the retainer up the stairs to his lordship's chambers.
“Lady Evelyn, daughter of Lord Donnelly to see you, my lord,” the butler announced her before bowing to her. He withdrew.
“Lady Evelyn?” a voice rasped. The study was dark, and Evelyn could barely discern the man who sat there. He had his back to the fire and was wearing a velvet smoking-cap. She could see white hair and the stoop of his shoulders, but that was all. His voice sounded ancient and weary.
“Lord Tallinn!” she said, making herself sound lighthearted and cheerful. “I was in town and I had to come and call. Lady Alexandra sends her regards from Ireland,” she added.
“Alexandra did that?” Lord Tallinn was surprised. He stood and gestured Evelyn to a seat before the fire, coming to join her in the leather wing-back seat opposite her. They sat and faced each other. “Odd,” he mused. “She was here the other day herself. You must have just missed her arrival.”
“I heard she was here,” Evelyn confessed, “though I was not certain if she had been yet to call, and she asked me to convey her regards to you when next I was in the area. I thought to do it now,” Evelyn said lightly.
“Good, good.” Lord Tallinn smiled. His eyes, brown and slightly faded, looked perpetually worried, something Evelyn remembered from her childhood. She had never heard about his daughter's death.
“The winter has been as cold here as in Ireland?” Evelyn asked conversationally. How am I to lead this conversation to Rebecca?
“No, no. It has been quite mild in comparison, I am sure. Though I hardly ever get up to my lands in Ireland, as you know,” he smiled. He leaned back in the seat, clearly enjoying the warm fire that crackled and popped in the grate behind them.
“Yes. We missed your company at Christmas,” Evelyn agreed.
“You have not been in town long, then, I take it?”
“I arrived last week,” Evelyn admitted. “I am staying a little out of town.”
“Splendid,” Lord Tallinn said lightly. “Though there are not too many places for a lady to stay out there?”
“No,” Evelyn said, looking at her hands. She did not want to lie about her residence, but she was terrified to mention the name Brokeridge. “I am near Blackwell Heights,” she said, naming a nearby manor-house in the hopes that he would not ask her anything more.
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “A nice place, that. Fine gardens, I remember. Used to visit Harwich up there in the summer, for the roses his wife grew there. I've
not been back there for a long time,” he said sadly. He looked down at his hands.
Evelyn guessed that he meant he had not returned to that area since his daughter's death. She strove for a way to ask about Rebecca without having to mention his daughter or her own current lodgings. “I noticed the rose garden,” she said hesitantly. “Their gardener must be talented indeed.”
“He is, he is!” the older man nodded amiably. “Great fellow, that. Anderson or something. I forget names.”
Evelyn strained her brain to think of some way to raise the topic of Rebecca. She thought of nothing. They sat quietly for a while, chatting about inconsequential things, until Lord Tallinn looked at the clock.
“My, is it half past eleven? And I have offered you no tea! Most remiss of me. Most remiss.” He shuffled across the room to the bell rope. “Let me call our maid now.” He rang the bell, and a servant entered. She must have been at least twenty years older than Evelyn, possibly more.
“Rebecca?” he asked, “Fetch us some tea and perhaps some of those little tartlets Cook made yesterday? Capital.”
As the older woman curtseyed and went out, Evelyn stared. “Rebecca?” she said before she could stop herself.
“Yes,” Lord Tallinn mused. “It's unusual to call a servant by name, I know. But she has been with the family so long, I almost think of her as one of us. And she reminds me of...” He cuffed his cheeks with the back of his hand, old eyes watering as if he would cry. He did not finish the sentence. Evelyn guessed. She reminds me of Euphemia, my daughter, whose maid she was.
“Lord Tallinn, that reminds me of a favor I have to ask,” Evelyn said, hit with sudden inspiration.
“Yes, my dear girl? Ask away. Your father would be pleased there was someone here to help.”
“Well,” she began, hesitant. “I had to leave my own maidservant behind in Ireland, and I find there is poor provision made for me in my current lodging. Could I borrow Rebecca from you for a few hours this afternoon, when I must prepare for a ball?” She held her breath, hopeful.
An Earl To Remember_The Yorkshire Downs Series_Love, Hearts and Challenges_A Regency Romance Story Page 30