by T T Thomas
Jeremy nodded. “He seemed to be operating by rote. No small talk, no small intimations, no—”
“Small innuendos posing as enigmatic disdain,” Sabrina finished. “I noticed. What could it mean?”
“No idea,” Jeremy said. “Unless he thinks he knows who the murderer is, and he was going through the motions with you.”
Sabrina got up and paced. “When was she killed?”
“Sometime after midnight but before dawn. Strollers coming back from a night near the riverbank saw her crumpled over in a doorway. Was stifling hot last night.”
“I’m sure the police will be checking all the tolerated houses. See if anyone is missing,” Sabrina said. “By the way, would you mind telling Mendicott that we’ve had a telephone installed, so perhaps he could call ahead if he wants to interview me again?”
Jeremy laughed. “You tell him. Next time you see him. But give me the number for me. My telephone is going in next week.”
After a restless mid morning of wandering around her own house and studio, Sabrina sat down at her late father’s desk and took a piece of writing paper from the box atop it. She couldn’t have explained precisely what her motivation was, but she wrote a letter to Lena inquiring after her well-being. She added that, naturally, Lena could expect to continue living in the house, the upkeep of which Sabrina would be happy—happy? A better word…Sabrina would consider it an honor—a point of honor—to continue contributing the usual monies for the house, including Lena’s household allowance for food and other necessities. In other words, Lena could have everything as usual, not including Sabrina.
Oh, it was all so confusing and awkward. Sabrina stopped to consider her words.
They both knew that only Sabrina’s funds financed their life at the townhouse, but Sabrina wanted Lena to know that would continue. Although Sabrina had provided Lena with her own savings account, and had endowed it with a substantial opening balance, Lena would be reluctant to delve into savings. This letter would serve as a reassurance that she would not have to worry about income or return to her old line of work .
She also mentioned that she had ordered a telephone for the townhouse and had scheduled installation for later in the week. She included her own new phone number.
Sabrina signed off with a wish to see Lena again soon. If Lena would prefer, perhaps a luncheon date. After hesitating, she scrawled her usual ‘Love, S’ at the bottom of the note. In a post script, she penned a question. “Do you know a working woman by the name of Daisy?”
Sabrina blotted the two-page letter, addressed the envelope and called for a courier. ‘Twas important that Lena receive it today.
It was quite a change to be able to pick up a physical instrument and talk to someone who was off premise. Despite the intermittent crackling on the line, voices that faded in and out and mysterious clicks, snaps and buzzes during any given conversation, the whole concept was like magic. Cath and Felicity were leery and afraid of the telephone, but both she and Walters took to it immediately.
Sabrina left the missive with Cath and wandered outside to her garden. Spring was fully in bloom, but the unseasonably warm days and nights foretold a hot summer in less than another month. On the other hand, June was notoriously unreliable and Sabrina had seen snow in May more than once in her life.
After another half hour, she meandered back inside. Cath wondered if she’d be wanting lunch. Sabrina thought not. She would take a nap, but Cath was to wake her if she should receive a return note by courier.
Sabrina sat at her bedroom window and looked out at the park across the street. She worried that her once legendary facile interactions with women were under duress. The park had been the scene of some serendipitous client revivals and fashion triumphs. Sabrina smiled to remember.
Many a high-strung woman, confronted with even the slightest increase in her waist or hip measurements, became fretful, even faint, and needed a breath of fresh air. Such troublesome discoveries happened while Sabrina’s normally reassuring hands failed to contain the petulant fury of a vain lady whose circumference revealed that her once-respected 19-inch waist had expanded to an apparently gossip-inducing twenty inches. At first, the client would blame the measuring tape, naturally, and then she would blame Sabrina, who took it in stride.
She could offer such a lady a certain open air privacy as she walked her across to the park, spread a plaid blanket, tended to her reduced state with a cool cloth to the brow, tempted her with a basket of fruit and a jug of iced lemon water and encouraged her to see her figure as Sabrina saw it: Perfect.
As she hastened to remind the dear lady, the cross measure amplitude of her bosom made the increase in her girth as good as negligible and unnoticeable. That calmed nine out of ten women.
It vexed one out of ten, but the lady feigned such vexation. That one enchantress usually fluttered her eyelashes, turned a guilty pink and gave Sabrina a fetching smile to show she was neither unobservant nor immune to the flirtation posing as subtle sensitivity inherent in Sabrina’s assessment about her bosom. It went nowhere, but it didn’t go away either. As a small trifling meant to assuage vanity, it was vague enough to be harmless and complimentary enough to warrant that winsome smile from one out of ten clients.
Indeed, Elisa Radcliffe, one of Sabrina’s more difficult, but favorite, clients once burst out laughing before delivering her appraisal of Sabrina’s way with words...and women.
“My dear Miss Blissdon! I’m not entirely certain that your estimation of my amplitude is in keeping with a lady’s rectitude, but I surely must compliment you on the plenitude of your enthusiastic aptitude! I do believe you’ve calmed me.”
Sabrina was discrete enough to blush with feigned bashfulness and forward enough to smile with delight.
In her three years of corsetry experience, she discovered most women detested any increments of weight gain incurred during minor but repeated moments of abeyance of self-restraint at the dessert tray. Inevitably, the lady would admit she had been overly fond of sweets in the preceding month. Sabrina understood.
It was not unlike the magnetic pull of the opium in which she used to indulge. It made one dizzy, unsteady, subject to both dysentery-like flux and ignominious vomiting, all with a hellish headache, but only after the drug wore off. Armed with that level of understanding, it was no wonder Sabrina was successful at assuaging a lady’s fretful state, at least enough to finish the fitting. The remedy seemed to work, and she liked to think her sensitivity brought all the important society ladies to the House of Bliss, Lingerie Pour les Femmes.
After all, if you couldn’t trust the person who made your corset, your bustiere or your torsolette, who could you trust?
When Sabrina came downstairs, Cath handed her an envelope.
“I did knock on your door,” Cath said. “But I guess you were asleep.”
Sabrina looked at the envelope and recognized the handwriting. “Ah, thank you, Cath. I’ll have a coffee in the library before dinner.”
Sabrina opened the letter and read it. As she did, her mouth opened in surprise, and she put the palm of her hand on her cheek.
Dearest S.,
We must speak. I do know Daisy, or that is I did. I went to call on her today and almost fainted when her landlady said she had been murdered! Daisy worked at Mrs. Tornage’s house the first couple months I was there.
Is all this not getting alarmingly “close to home”? I daresay it is. Come over this evening or tomorrow evening if you’re able. L.
Sabrina breathed one sigh of relief and one deep breath of apprehension. She did not feel like seeing Lena this evening, but at this late hour, Lena probably knew that she would not come tonight.
But finding out Daisy lived at Mrs. Tornage’s house? Far more coincidence than she could justify.
She drank her coffee. Nothing made sense, but it all felt connected. She tried to focus on Daisy, but she didn’t recall meeting her so perhaps she hadn’t. But Lena knowing her? Close, indeed.
&nb
sp; Her mind drifted but soon filled with glimpses of hours spent with Felicity. The sensual congress was sublime. She felt closer to her because of it. There was something she trusted about the woman, to have allowed such new latitudes of intimacy. She was not inclined to give it up, certainly not after the last rendezvous. And yet…she wondered if that blurred her judgment. She felt more than a little uneasy. About something—she could not put her finger on what, though.
She broke off a piece of biscuit on the dessert plate next to her coffee. As she pondered her dilemma, she realized what was bothering her.
Sabrina saw a beauty or magic to randomness. She was a casual student of it. She saw it everywhere—in her gardens, in her fabrics, in her life. But meeting Felicity struck her as not random.
How much coincidence could one seemingly random meeting with a woman, Felicity, bring into her life? What was the likelihood that a woman who sewed, an embroiderer yet, would meet a woman who designed corsets and had an apparel studio?
What were the ridiculous odds that a woman who could seduce a woman would meet a woman who fancied that? Indeed, on this specifically, was it not Felicity’s facile, even incautious, amorous dexterity that aroused Sabrina’s apprehension, as well as her libido? Sure, perhaps Felicity possessed a rare and wonderful natural talent, but…
And, most incredibly, how impossible was it that a woman who was the sibling of Sabrina’s first and long-lost lover happened to show up cold and sorrowful on Sabrina’s doorstep? If there were the possibility of an explanation, then there would be no coincidence, she reasoned. She needed more information.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would look through the Glyver files while Felicity was working in the studio. Maybe she’d find something that would shed light on her current situation. And now, it turns out that Lena knew Daisy. Lena was right: It was getting a little too close to home for comfort.
Sabrina felt a shiver of betrayal that she should be checking on Felicity, a woman with whom she had made love, especially as their congress had been unsullied by suspicion and joyous by design.
Her breath caught at the memory followed instantly by a threatening sense of loss, but she would prefer to eliminate collusion and conspiracy than get surprised by treachery.
Chapter 23
June 1906
Bel was surprised to find Markham pacing outside the pub. His face was ruddy, his linen suit wrinkled. His tie, as always, was perfect.
“Are we going somewhere, George?” She pointed at his small traveller’s duffel.
Markham rubbed his hands together, nervously. “Well, dear, I thought we’d take a quick trip up to Cornwall. A couple days on the coast would do you, do us both, some good.”
Bel laughed. “I have no suitcase, no clothes, no necessities for a trip.”
“Exactly, and we will go shopping immediately upon arrival. We’re going by train, and we’ll be there by dawn.”
Stunned, Bel couldn’t formulate a full answer.
“Well…”
He meant them to go to Cornwall. She looked at him askance and wondered what the real purpose of the trip was.
At Paddington, she looked around at all the finery, the smart luggage and the small, happy family groups. She clutched at the collar of her thin coat, but relief flooded her body when she realized she was wearing something subdued, almost classic. Old but classic. She unbuttoned her coat so the dress would show.
“We’re on the Cornish Riviera Express,” George said as he pulled their tickets out of his breast pocket. “Off to Penzance,” he added, a note of undisguised triumph in his voice and demeanor.
“Where will we stay, then?” Bel asked.
“I’ve got a family connection up there,” he said, “and I’ve let a small cottage in Mousehole Harbor for us.”
“I see.”
After they settled into the cottage, Markham suggested going into the village for something to eat and to buy Bel some clothing. As she tried on various day dresses, Markham took a liking to one in off white.
“I rather like that,” he said, as she came out of the dressing room. “It’s fitting for…let’s have you wear it out of here today.”
Bel bought two dresses, one of which she wore to breakfast, and a pair of canvas sandals. As they sat in a café having breakfast, she decided to be more direct.
“George, I know you have something special up your sleeve, but shouldn’t you tell me what it is?” She was smiling at him.
He wiped his mouth with his napkin, sat back and looked at her. “Bel, I’d be most honored if you would consent to becoming my wife.”
That was the last thing she expected to hear. “Mr. Markham—”
The words tumbled out of his mouth quickly. “Hear me out, hear me out. I don’t want the child to be a bastard. I haven’t got much in the way of financial security, but I have my title and some land, both of which she would inherit when she comes of age.”
“But George—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, lowering his eyes. “She’s mine as far as I’m concerned. Does she resemble me even a little?”
It wasn’t the topic she was trying to address, but she paused long enough to consider the benefits of addressing it. She was tempted to tell him he was the father of Sophia, which he was, to confirm it for him without a doubt, but something made her refrain from full disclosure. She chose to insinuate.
“I believe she has your eyes. Not the color because all babies have blue eyes so we don’t know if she’ll end up with your blue eyes, but the shape of her eyes is yours. And, maybe her ears. She’s a beautiful baby, regal in an odd way. Babies usually aren’t, you know.”
Markham beamed. “I’ve found a small rectory. We can go there now, and they’ll marry us. The rector’s wife can be our witness. We’ll dig up a second witness along the way.”
Bel nodded. “So, then, George, is this to be our honeymoon?”
Markham blushed. Then coughed. “Yes, yes I suppose it is. I’m sorry it’s so short.”
She gave him a special smile, something warm, something enchanting. “I’m pleased to have you as a husband, George, and this is a very fine honeymoon.” Bel thought marriage wasn’t what either of them anticipated when they first began to see one another, but neither of them wanted the new baby to be without two legal parents. That made sense to Bel, and she was grateful he thought of it.
Markham interrupted her thought. “We probably want to keep our marriage a secret from everyone. It might be best for all concerned,” he said.
Bel agreed. “I’d rather not mention it to my sister right now, either,” she said. “When this situation with Hugh gets sorted, and Felicity is no longer on his payroll, then I will mention it. I’ve not registered the baby’s birth yet.”
“Ah, that’s, it’s quite all right. Will you use her actual date of birth, then?”
“Yes,” said Bel, “November 30.”
“Well, and then, too, if Glyver is to continue your stipend, you must remain unmarried as far as he knows. I wish I were as wealthy as I ought to be, but I want you off the streets and out of that line of work. I care for you, Bel.”
Bel seemed lost in thought. “Yes, that too,” she agreed. He hadn’t declared love, but then she wouldn’t expect it of him. Markham held his outward emotions close to the vest buttons. “Where am I to live, George?”
“I’ve found a place. It’s an impossibly small flat but in a good area, owned by a bachelor friend of mine who is the height of discretion. Not Kensington but adjacent. You’ll be in West Brompton. Still plenty of greenery, gardens and healthier air.”
“Oh my,” Bel said. “That is a decided step up in the world.”
“No more than you deserve and less than you had in your, ah, prior life, but it’s what I can do, as your husband. I’ll keep my place in Belgravia, of course, so no one is the wiser.”
“Of course.” Bel looked around the small café. She looked for something on which to focus. A small child, a boy, was sitting in his
father’s lap as the mother ate her breakfast. The father was good with the child, feeding him, talking to him, soothing him.
“I would like to teach again, George. I know it will take some time to re-build my reputation…” she paused, as much because she wasn’t sure what to say next as she was certain it would be a next to an impossible goal to achieve.
“And you will teach again, if you wish, Bel, perhaps even have your own small private school—when our marriage is public.”
He sounded confident. “With all the new development, I might be able to leverage some of my family acreage up north—not all of it, of course, but some. The rest will be for Sophia.”
“And then she will quite rightly be The Honorable Sophia Markham,” Bel said.
“Yes. And you will be a Baroness now, although you’re keeping that a secret for the immediate future. Shall we go get married? In the fervent hope you’d agree, I’ve made all the arrangements.”
They walked a few blocks to a small wooden church. It didn’t seem large enough to have much of a congregation, and in fact, Bel discovered it was not exactly a church. That was a couple blocks away. It was the residence of the Rector.
In a small anteroom off the foyer, a tiny chapel became a makeshift wedding room. But barely. They hadn’t found a second witness, but the Rector assured them his daughter was of age and happy to assist as such.
As Bel stood there listening to the Rector recite the wedding service, she tried not to notice that his wife and a young daughter were staring at her. The older woman was a study in passivity, her face a mask of indifference. The younger one, though, the daughter, smiled at Bel, her young romanticism undiscouraged by her serious, sullen parents.
“…and, thereto, I give thee my troth,” the Rector said.
“…and, thereto, I give thee my troth,” they repeated.
Her own voice sounded soft but tense, Markham’s firm but distant. It was their mutual tone of solemnity that alerted her to an ill-defined dissonance. George was face forward to the rector, unsmiling, taut. Bel registered her own stiff posture as reflective of a mild sense of unease she couldn’t quite shake. Nerves? Probably. Until yesterday, he was a client. And today her husband. Did she really know him? And her married to the Baron of Porthleven. It was almost surreal.