by Blythe Baker
The room dwarfed us, the stage itself a large, foreboding presence at the back of the room. The room sloped down, lined with velvet rows of seats, many of which were already occupied. Red curtains, the same velvet as the seats, stretched across the wooden stage, hiding it from view.
“We are in box C,” Mr. Jerome said, turning Mrs. Montford down the open aisle along the wall and in through another doorway to a narrow hall. We passed by a few doors, all of which gave glimpses to the theater seats beyond, before he stopped at the last one, only a few from the end.
“Here we are,” Mr. Jerome said, gesturing for Mrs. Montford to enter.
She did, and then he stepped in after her, leaving me in the hall.
Quickly, I followed after them.
The box seats were in prime view of the side of the stage. I knew we would be close enough to see the expressions on the faces of the actors. Mr. Jerome was seating Mrs. Montford in one of the seats closest to the half wall that wrapped around the box, giving her the best view, and he sat between her and his mother, who occupied the last seat of the row.
I sidled into the seat directly behind Mrs. Montford, doing my best to remain as quiet as possible.
I am a maid, after all, and a maid I shall remain, I thought.
“Good evening,” Mrs. Townson said in a cool tone, giving Mrs. Montford a brief nod.
“Good evening,” Mrs. Montford replied. “Thank you for the invitation. It was gracious of you.”
Mrs. Townson made an imperceptible sound that might have been taken as agreement.
“Mother is quite good friends with Mr. Rutherford, playing the illustrious hero in this play,” Mr. Jerome said, indicating a program, his finger trailing over the cast of characters written across it. “He’s rather brilliant, as you’ll see.”
“How did Mrs. Townson come to be acquainted with someone so…” Mrs. Montford said.
“Unusual?” Mrs. Townson asked, her smile tight.
“Yes,” Mrs. Montford said. “I imagine theater people are a difficult group to get in with. Not that your brother ever had any interest in them, you see.”
“No, he certainly did not,” Mrs. Townson said. “I imagine he would be disappointed with me in that regard. However, Mr. Rutherford is a man of character and he has great respect for the service and for the men who serve.”
I looked down. Mrs. Townson’s own late husband had also been in the army, I had heard.
“I am interested to hear that you are keeping such company,” Mrs. Montford said. “I suppose that I will soon find myself rubbing shoulders with those with whom I am…less acquainted.”
“There is a great deal about me and my interests that might surprise you, dear sister-in-law,” Mrs. Townson said, a bit of a bite to her words. “Truly, you should—”
“Mother…”
Mr. Jerome gave his mother a flat look, and she glared at him.
“Now,” Mr. Jerome said. “I will not hear this between you two. This strange grudge that you have has gone on long enough.”
Mrs. Townson shot Mrs. Montford a narrow-eyed glare over her son’s shoulder, and Mrs. Montford looked coolly on.
“Yes, dear aunt, I was the one who suggested inviting you here this evening and I had Mother pen the letter. I have brought you both here for a reason,” Mr. Jerome said.
I looked back and forth between the two women.
This is quite interesting… I thought. It was certainly not what I was expecting.
“I asked you both to be here together,” he said, “knowing full well that you would have no choice but to listen to me in these circumstances. Now, I—Mother, wait. Just listen.”
Mrs. Townson snapped her mouth shut, her forehead wrinkling.
“Thank you,” he said, looking back and forth between them. “You two must put your differences behind you.”
Mrs. Montford rolled her shoulders, looking down into the crowds finding their way to their seats. Mrs. Townson, likewise, turned away, folding her arms.
Mr. Jerome said, “You will be seeing a great deal more of one another, will you not? You have the same acquaintances, the same friends and family. This city may be big but you travel in the same circles. I would very much appreciate it if you both would try to get along better. I would like my mother and the wife of my favorite uncle to be on the best terms possible.”
“This is preposterous,” Mrs. Townson said, shaking her head. “I—”
“Mother, please listen,” he said. “There needs to be resolution. It has been so long that I cannot even remember what it is that you were both so upset about. I imagine that you cannot think of the real reason, either.”
She said nothing further, and he then turned to Mrs. Montford.
“Dear aunt, my uncle loved his sister and I know that it would have given him great comfort to know that, after his passing, you and she were able to be friends. Or perhaps, at the very least, amiable. Is that acceptable to you both?”
“I know he would have appreciated the effort,” Mrs. Montford said, in a quiet voice.
“He certainly would have,” Mr. Jerome said. “So…can I count on the both of you to put this behind you? Here and now?”
The women said nothing.
“This is a perfect place,” he said. “You could enjoy your first play together, without the grudge between you.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Montford said, turning her sharp gaze upon Mrs. Townson. “I will be willing to give it a try.”
Mrs. Townson’s gaze snapped toward Mrs. Montford, her eyes slits. “Fine,” she said, straightening. “I suppose I can be convinced.”
“Very good,” Mr. Jerome said. “This will go a long way, I believe, to bettering our family ties. Everyone will be so pleased to be able to welcome you back into the fold, dear aunt. Thank you,” he added, looking between them. “I am glad that you have agreed to be civil to one another.”
It did not surprise me that Mrs. Montford had agreed, perhaps more quickly than Mrs. Townson. Given the amount of stress that she had been under these past weeks, in the wake of her husband’s death, perhaps the things that mattered most in life had been put into a different, clearer perspective.
In a way, I wondered if maintaining her relationship with Mrs. Townson would be a way for her to still feel close to her late husband. Mrs. Townson and the Colonel had been siblings, after all. Perhaps their relationship, rekindled, would allow Mrs. Montford to feel as if he were still there with her.
The lights in the theater began to dim and the sound of the string orchestra began, swelling to indicate the start of the play.
“Very good,” Mr. Jerome said. “You do not know how much this pleases me.”
He settled in between them, ready to watch the play.
I, too, settled in, feeling a bit more content myself.
Perhaps not all is lost, I thought. Even when things seem so bleak, and life seems so terribly hard, there is still good to be seen.
6
A round of applause followed the actors as the curtains closed on the first act. It had been a thrilling performance, with the believable sounds of gunshots backstage as the characters chased one another around a set painted to look like the streets of London. Lovely ladies in their evening finest wailed and swooned on cue. The men, dapper and dashing, were intense and perhaps a bit overexcited.
Despite the central point of the story surrounding the death of a wealthy banker, the play itself had drawn me in and helped me to forget what I had been suffering through. A great reprieve that helped me to realize that I did not need to devote so much of myself to the circumstances I had found myself in. It was a bit of a relief and it reminded me that when I returned home, I could truly set aside the matter of Mr. Hill’s murder.
“My, that Mr. Rutherford certainly is good,” Mrs. Montford said as we left the box during the intermission. We fell in with the other attendees who had left their seats to stretch their legs or to partake in some of the food and drink available for purchase. “He is
quite believable as that police detective.”
“Isn’t he, though?” Mrs. Townson said in a much kinder voice than she had used earlier. “I told you how wonderful he was.”
“Yes, Mother, you were right,” Mr. Jerome said. He grinned at Mrs. Montford. “You will like him, I’m sure. I suppose you will be able to meet him at our next dinner party, which she will be invited to, right, Mother?”
Mrs. Townson’s eyebrows rose but she nodded, her nose tipped up into the air.
“See? Isn’t that wonderful?” Mr. Jerome said.
The three of them stopped at a tall round table, and I stepped off to the side, hugging the wall. Mrs. Montford gave me a sharp, pointed look and drew me closer with a small tilt of her chin. Mr. Jerome waved one of the servers over and ordered some drinks for us all.
I flushed but said nothing. I knew it was better I played the part of belonging with this group instead of acting as a servant. A thorough look around told me that very few people had brought any servants with them. The only ones I had seen belonged to that same, stunning blonde woman I had seen outside the theater, surrounded by men. She stood nearer the center of the room, some of the same men hovering nearby like flies to fruit. The way she glared and snapped at the servants who attended her made me grateful that Mrs. Montford treated me well enough. Certainly better than that.
“Now, ma’am, you must tell me how your first weeks back in London have been,” Mr. Jerome said as he sipped his drink, the garland hanging on the wall behind him twinkling with shining ribbon and small, reflective golden baubles. “And what a wonderful time for you to have come. As you can see, we are in full swing here for the Christmas season.”
“It truly is lovely,” Mrs. Montford said. “I never thought I would spend another Christmas in London, but I must admit, seeing the décor has set my heart in better spirits, though I certainly have a great deal to set in order in my own home.”
“I shall send my decorator to you, then,” Mrs. Townson said, her lips slightly pursed. It was clear she still struggled to speak without a sneer. “He is the very best and will make up your house in such a way that you will be the envy of your neighbors.”
Mr. Jerome grinned at his aunt. “Can you see how competitive she is?”
Mrs. Townson glared at him. “I most certainly am not,” she said. “It matters not what others will think. I simply wish to enjoy the season to the fullest.”
“Of course, Mother,” Mr. Jerome said. He sighed, shaking his head while he smirked at her. “The real question is what shall I get for the woman who has everything? The struggle I have every year. Perhaps you will be able to help me, ma’am. Heaven knows I need it.”
“You know perfectly well that I do not need any gifts,” she said.
He laughed. “Yes, I know full well. I can think of nothing to get you apart from a hand-painted portrait of your dear Lionel.”
“Lionel?” Mrs. Montford asked.
“Her prized poodle,” Mr. Jerome said.
Mrs. Townson smiled, and it amazed me how much it softened her face. “Well…perhaps it would not be such a terrible idea, yes? It would look rather nice in the study.”
“I shall have to find the right man for the job, then,” her son said. He turned to Mrs. Montford, his brow creasing. “Did I not hear that you also had chosen to have a portrait done?”
“I did…” Mrs. Montford said, looking away.
“How is that going?” Mr. Jerome asked. “Who have you hired?”
Mrs. Montford, to my surprise, turned to look at me. I noticed a flash of worry in her gaze.
Once again, I must push through the mire of devastating events.
“Mr. Hill,” she said, with a heaviness that suggested she simply waited for the avalanche of questions that would surely follow.
Mr. Jerome’s face, instead, brightened. “Oh, Mr. Hill,” he said, seeming delighted. “What a tremendous artist. I am fully aware that he has not yet received the recognition he deserves but he has made quite the reputation for himself in some of the higher circles. I know that Mother is fond of the piece he did for Lady Grove, aren’t you, Mother?”
Mrs. Townson nodded. “He painted the landscape just outside their home, at the edge of the city. You can just make out the river and he captured the most magnificent sunset.” She sighed, shaking her head. “The way he managed to make the light seem so…real.”
Mrs. Montford looked down. I could see the cogs moving in her mind, the same cogs that were moving in my own.
“What did you think of him, ma’am? Is he as eccentric as I have heard?” he asked.
“Yes, he was,” Mrs. Montford said.
“I am not at all surprised,” Mrs. Townson said. “How did you hear of him? I cannot imagine he is yet known outside of London.”
“Lady Caldwell,” Mrs. Montford said. Her unease, as strong as it was, ought to have been clear to her nephew and sister-in-law.
“Oh? And how is she?” Mrs. Townson asked, sipping from her fizzing drink. “I do not believe I have seen her since the Spring Gala in Oxford. How is her sister? I heard she was ill.”
I could see the frustration in the lines of Mrs. Montford’s face. I assumed she debated whether or not to tell her about Mr. Hill.
“She is better, from what she told me,” Mrs. Montford said.
“Well, I must admit, I am surprised you were even able to hire Mr. Hill,” Mr. Jerome said. “From what I understand, he is a hard man to get hold of, let alone set up an appointment with. Did he ask for an exorbitant price?”
“No, it seemed reasonable enough to me,” Mrs. Montford said. “Nothing that I would not have paid in Maidstone or from surrounding villages.”
“It is astounding,” Mrs. Townson said. “He is so well loved by everyone… Well, almost everyone.”
My ears perked up at her words. Almost everyone?
At once, I scolded myself.
No, Anna, you made a promise to Mrs. Montford. You are not to get involved. It would be terribly unwise.
It was not as if I had asked them to begin speaking about Mr. Hill. In all truth, it was not entirely unreasonable to think that the topic might have come up at some point during the night. It seemed that Mrs. Montford had assumed they knew what had happened. As popular as Mr. Hill was, it surprised me that the news of his death had not yet become widespread.
Nevertheless, I could not afford to get involved. Nor did I want to. I would allow them to discuss it but I would have nothing to do with it. I could not.
Mrs. Montford turned and looked at me, a sidelong expression.
In her glance, I could see the question I myself had been asking; when would they find out?
“We learned all too quickly how…despised he must have been by some,” Mrs. Montford said, her expression suddenly grave.
“Oh, he certainly is,” Mrs. Townson said, seemingly missing Mrs. Montford’s past tense phrasing. “All artists must be, out of jealousy or simple misunderstanding. From what I have heard, the man is rather arrogant but he has earned his high reputation. His art speaks for itself and there is a reason why he is sought after by so many and has grown in fame so quickly.”
Mr. Jerome turned to his mother. “Too true, Mother. Well, then perhaps I should send for him. I imagine we could work out something with him, if he is not too terribly busy before Christmas. It seems he managed to squeeze you in, dear aunt, perhaps he can find a few hours to—”
Mrs. Montford laid a hand on his arm, stopping him from speaking any further.
He looked at her, brow furrowing. “Aunt Beatrice?” he asked. “Are you all right? You seem terribly pale all of a sudden.”
Her shoulders stiffened and she shook her head. “Mr. Hill is dead,” she said in a low voice. “I would have assumed that everyone knew by now.”
“Dead?” Mrs. Townson asked, her eyes bulging. She grasped at the front of her dress, taking the pendant hanging from the golden chain around her neck, clenching it tightly in her hand. “How… How did yo
u—”
Mrs. Montford shook her head again, as if hoping to dispel the images.
“You cannot be serious,” Mr. Jerome said, his eyes narrowing. “He did not die in your home, did he?”
“No,” Mrs. Montford said, looking at me once again. “It happened not far away. Moments after he left my home, in fact. I sent Anna after him, hoping to reschedule the time we had agreed upon for our next session, as I remembered I had a conflict just after he left.”
At once, both Mr. Jerome and Mrs. Townson shifted their attention to me.
A shiver ran down my spine and I looked away immediately. Mrs. Townson, of course, must not have seen me as anything more than a maid, but Mr. Jerome… What did he think?
Why did I care what he thought?
“You saw it happen?”
It was Mr. Jerome who voiced the question and I thought I detected concern in his tone.
“Yes,” I said simply, keeping my shoulders hunched inward.
“What happened?” Mrs. Townson asked.
I could not be certain if the question was directed at me or Mrs. Montford, so I waited for her to answer.
“Go on, girl, you can tell them,” my mistress said.
I swallowed but my mouth had gone dry.
“He…he was attacked down a narrow alleyway,” I said in a low voice, worried about being overheard. “With what I could only assume was a knife.” The words came begrudgingly, my pulse quickening.
“A knife!” Mrs. Townson said, aghast.
“And you saw this happen?” Mr. Jerome asked again, his gaze set upon me.
In his eyes, I saw a recognition and familiarity that I had not seen in his brief glance earlier.
“It was dark and shadowed, so I cannot be entirely sure what happened,” I said. “But the police found him down there in that alleyway…dead.”
An astonished silence fell over our small table, while the rest of the jovial hum of conversations continued on all around us, entirely unaware of what we had revealed. The eeriness of it settled over me. It seemed, for a moment, that we were the only four living in reality, while the rest of those in the theater were all too happily ignoring their own problems.