by Blythe Baker
Mr. Jerome had said much the same that night at the theater.
I swallowed, uncertain whether to admit that I knew what she seemed to. One thing was for certain, though. Mrs. Montford had said that his death would be the talk of the town. It seemed everywhere we went, Mr. Hill was mentioned by those all around.
I decided to chance asking for a small amount of information. “I heard somewhere that this man had a brother. Is that correct?” I asked.
“Yes, he did,” Fannie said, her eyes widening.
“I heard they were sour with one another,” I continued.
“Sir Fitzwilliam’s dearest friend, the man in blue over there? He was convinced that it was the artist’s own brother,” Fannie said, shaking her head. “But he could not have possibly been the killer. You see, Mr. Hill—Mr. Robert Hill, that is—is quite amiable with my lady. Her cousin, a Mr. Randolph, is also very good friends with the man. Through him, Lady Fitzwilliam knew that Robert Hill had been out of the city on business when the death occurred. He could not possibly have been responsible.”
The knots in my stomach twisted and tightened. If this was accurate, then it would mean he was not the one responsible, which would mean the killer was that much further from being discovered. Was it true, though, or had Robert Hill been clever enough to plant false information about his whereabouts at the time of his brother’s death, in order to cover his tracks? I had no way of being sure.
“It seems that he rushed home right away, as soon as he found out,” Fannie continued, with a shake of her head. “They say he has now locked himself in his house and has not left. He has been grieving ever since…which is strange, considering how little they cared for one another in life.”
“People can react unpredictably to tragedy,” I said.
“I could not agree more,” Fannie said. “To lose a brother in such a way…”
I pondered her words, going through them again.
The brother, whom Mr. Jerome had thought a likely killer, had supposedly been out of town when the killing occurred. But the timing of that seemed awfully convenient, as was the man’s sudden change of heart toward the deceased. I decided Mr. Robert Hill could not be ruled out as a suspect.
“What a terrible, terrible fate for a family,” Fannie said. “Even for a family that did not see eye to eye on everything.”
“Yes, terrible indeed,” I said.
“Fannie?”
We turned to see another young maid slide along the wall to us. The girl was narrow-eyed with a round nose and had a short, bobbed haircut similar to my own. She glared at me, her nose wrinkling.
“Oh, this is Anna,” Fannie said. “She is Mrs. Montford’s personal attendant.”
The maid continued to wrinkle her nose, turning to look at Fannie properly. “Yes, well, did I hear you discussing that artist’s death?”
How in the world did she hear? Where was this girl a moment ago?
I realized it had been easy for her to sneak up on us, as absorbed in the conversation as I had been. I looked over at her but she seemed to be ignoring me entirely.
“Yes, we were,” Fannie said, her brow furrowing. “Why?”
“Well, you all thought it might have been the brother?” she asked. “I know they disliked one another but would that really have been enough reason to kill someone? No! It certainly would not!”
I glanced over the top of the maid’s head—she barely came up to my nose—and saw Lady Grove getting to her feet, having composed herself once again. With a shake of her head, she assured those around her that she was quite all right.
“No, the person who killed him had to have hated Mr. Hill,” the young maid said, clenching her hands into excited fists. “As intense of a death as it was, it had to have been an act of revenge, of rage.”
“Vi, you really should keep your voice down,” Fannie said. “Lady Fitzwilliam will not take kindly to us stealing the gossip from her for the evening, now, will she?”
Vi glared up at Fannie before shifting her gaze to me, though the dislike was still clear on her face. “Yes, well… But this is the most exciting thing to have happened in weeks around here. It is all anyone is talking about down in the kitchen!”
“Yes, I know,” Fannie said.
“Perhaps it was Jasper Fields,” Vi said, tapping the side of her cheek.
“That artist?” Fannie asked. “The one who parades around Hyde Park?”
“Yes… Perhaps not,” Vi said. “I know the men competed for many of the same clients, but—” Suddenly, her eyes lit up, and she reached out and grabbed Fannie’s hand. “Perhaps it was Henry Bibbons!” she exclaimed.
Fannie laughed at that remark. “Oh, come now, Mr. Bibbons?”
“Well, why not?” Vi asked. “You heard the way he went on and on about Mr. Hill’s arrogance and insincerity, though to be perfectly honest, I thought it nothing more than a poor reflection of his own character that he feels so threatened by—”
I sighed, looking over to find Mrs. Montford still engrossed in a conversation with the same man she had been laughing with before. I did not recognize him, though I assumed there were many people that Mrs. Montford had known before she had hired me. It was enough to distract me from the girls’ conversation, which had swiftly turned into nothing more than speculation and gossip.
Not that it matters what they are saying, or who they think is responsible. It changes nothing. You made a promise to Mrs. Montford and you must keep it.
It was true. I had made her a promise and I did need to keep it. I would not get involved.
I had not wanted to. Fannie had begun the conversation, had she not?
I sighed as the two women continued to twitter on, listing off name after name, each one becoming less and less likely, especially when they suggested it might have been a sitting member of Parliament.
It was of little use. I was done with the matter.
The difference was that it seemed the matter was not done with me.
9
Frost settled on the panes of the windows the following morning. As I stared out into the street, my breath brushed against the glass, clouding it like smoke billowing from a chimney. I dressed quickly, the house still mostly dark. I readied Mrs. Montford’s reading corner, where she had taken to spending her mornings after breakfast, and instructed George to get the fire good and roaring before she entered the room; the chill had been bothering her more this year than the last.
I ate my breakfast in a hurry and exchanged a few hurried thoughts with Selina as we passed by one another, her on the way to the laundry and me to Mrs. Montford’s room. I passed by a few other servants as well before I reached her door and knocked.
“Come in, Anna,” she said.
When I entered the room, I was surprised to find her already dressed, sitting in her chair near the window.
“Good morning, ma’am,” I said, slipping into the room. The moodiness of the room surprised me, with the only light coming through the windows. “Is…everything all right?”
She looked over at me, her hands folded in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “I had trouble sleeping last night. I had a great deal on my mind.”
“I see,” I said. “Well, what can I do to help you?”
Mrs. Montford sighed, turning to gaze back out of the frosted window. “Nothing,” she said. “I rose quite early, dressed…and I simply do not have the energy today that I would like to.”
She looked over at me, her expression flat, but she did not appear troubled. Instead, she looked calmer than I had seen her in some time.
“I believe I have made up my mind about something,” she said. “I have some thinking that I must do and I would like not to be disturbed.”
“Of course,” I said. “Shall I have breakfast sent up to you?”
“That would be fine,” she said and then turned back to the window.
Without another word from her, I turned and headed back out of the room and closed the door behind me.
; I lingered out in the hall, looking back over my shoulder at the door.
What could she have to think about so intently? What could it be if she asked not to be disturbed?
I spent the rest of my morning in a strange state of limbo, doing my best to keep busy tidying up, preparing for the chance that Mrs. Montford would appear and return to her typical routine.
I found myself in the parlor just before lunch, rearranging the books on the shelves at the back of the room. Mrs. Montford had mentioned in passing that she wanted them to be organized by subject and author but they had been hastily stored away on the shelves when we had arrived in London. I spread them out over the floor, eyeing them, rearranging them, and trying my best to discern just how she would want them to be.
I wondered if she would want me to change them again in the end.
A knock on the front door caught my attention and I paused in my sorting, a trio of books to join the Adventure section of the library tucked underneath my arm. Mr. Fitzroy was there, ready to answer.
I heard the muffled voice of a man on the other side. I assumed that it was a postman dropping off Mrs. Montford’s letters for the day. I thought little of it as I carried the books to the shelf and slipped them in the gap on the far side of the second shelf. I stepped back to see how it looked, to see if it was balanced, when I heard Mr. Fitzroy’s voice behind me.
“Miss Fairweather, I hope you might answer a question for me?”
I turned, abandoning the books. “Certainly,” I said. “What do you need?”
“Mr. Townson is here, looking for Mrs. Montford,” he said. “Has she taken ill? I have yet to see her this morning.”
“No, she has not taken ill,” I said. “She simply asked that she not be disturbed today.”
“I see,” he said. “Then I shall inform Mr. Townson.”
“Inform me of what?”
My heart took off like a spooked horse, thundering in my chest.
It was Mr. Jerome who had appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Townson,” Mr. Fitzroy said with a nervous chuckle. “I didn’t expect you to follow me in.”
Mr. Jerome shrugged. “I imagined my aunt would not mind terribly if I came to pay her a visit. Though, if I heard you right, you said she did not wish to be disturbed today?”
His blue eyes left the butler to settle upon me.
“Is that right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “She did not sleep well last night and she hoped to have some time to herself today.”
He nodded. “I see… I do hope that she is feeling all right.”
I hesitated. “I believe she is well, sir, though she said she did have a great deal on her mind.” I had hoped both to put his worries at ease as well as give Mrs. Montford the privacy she needed without him racing up to check on her.
“Well, I suppose that is not very much of a surprise,” he said. “With the death of my uncle and moving house, her whole life has changed. It is no wonder that she would have a great deal of weighty thoughts to carry around.”
“Indeed,” I said. “I am certain that you are correct.”
“Well, then might I ask you the questions I had for my aunt?” Mr. Jerome asked.
I looked up, expecting him to be surveying Mr. Fitzroy, but his gaze was still fixed upon me.
“Me, sir?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he said. “You are closest to her, after all. Practically her right hand, according to what she says.”
The color in my cheeks deepened. “Very well,” I said. “I will do what I can.”
“Good,” Mr. Jerome said. He nodded at Mr. Fitzroy. “Thank you for your help. And might I say that I am very pleased with your hire? You are a great deal more likeable than your predecessor.”
“Thank you, sir,” the butler said, inclining his head. “I am happy to be of service. If you need anything else, I shall be out in the foyer.”
With a quick bow, he excused himself from the room.
Then Mr. Jerome and I were alone.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and took a step closer to me.
I remained where I was, wondering what in the world I was to say to him. In the past, our interactions had been primarily about murder, his uncle’s in particular.
“So…” Mr. Jerome said, crossing between the sofa and the writing desk toward the middle of the parlor where I stood, books spread out all around me as if the shelves had tipped over.
“How can I help you, Mr. Jerome?” I asked.
He lifted a hand in dismissal. “Oh, come now. You can call me Jerome. I imagine that we will be seeing a great deal more of one another now that my aunt lives in London. And after all that we have been through together, Mr. Jerome or Mr. Townson would seem a trifle ridiculous, don’t you agree?”
I did not know what to say to that.
“I can see that I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he said, halting his steps. “That is not my intent. I realize that our interactions have been…unusual ever since we have met but I remain terribly grateful for the hand that you played in unearthing my uncle’s killer. And although I have heard rumor of some tragic events that occurred while you both were in Brighton, I am pleased that you were at my aunt’s side at that time. You have a sensible head on your shoulders and she needs someone capable and loyal at her side.”
“You flatter me,” I said, unsure how to respond. “I merely do my job.”
“No, it is more than that,” he said. “I would be remiss if I did not admit that I have difficulty seeing you as nothing more than my aunt’s personal attendant. I think that my aunt considers you to be something akin to a relative. She trusts you, you see. I have heard how highly she speaks of you. When she wants someone to be with her, to accompany her, she chooses you.”
I shook my head. “Mr. Jerome, I appreciate the kind words but I am aware of my place as a servant in this house—”
“You do not need to take my word for it,” he said, holding his hands up. “All I want you to know is that I have come to trust you, as well. You have helped and protected my aunt. Taken care of my family.”
I felt strange and uncomfortable, being the subject of praise merely for doing my job. These were not the sort of things that I should be complimented for. “I was only doing what I should for my mistress,” I said, taking a step backward and nearly tripping over one of the books on the floor.
I fell back, my arms flying out to stop myself.
A hand gripped my wrist, preventing me from tipping over any further.
I looked up and found Mr. Jerome standing right beside me, gently easing me back up onto steady footing.
I stared up into his face, his cobalt eyes sweeping over me.
I yanked my hand from him, the heat in my face spreading through my neck and down to my chest. “Thank you, sir,” I muttered. “You are very kind.”
“No sense in seeing you collapse to the floor,” he said. “What sort of gentleman would that make me? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said, though the room spun a little.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” he asked, gesturing to the chair beside me.
I eased myself down into it and he took the one next to me.
“So, if you remember, I did have some questions,” Mr. Jerome said. “For my aunt.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, sitting as rigidly in my chair as if I were made of wood. “What…what did you need?”
“Well,” he said, settling back in his own chair as if we had been friends for years and did this regularly together. “I came to speak with my aunt, to see how you both were holding up after the death of Mr. Hill.”
My heart sank. This again?
“In particular, I had hoped to see how you were handling it. I did not want to appear impertinent and come to you directly, though it seems that my desire to ask after your welfare was answered in a way I did not expect,” he said. “And so, how are you?”
The warmth in his smile was comforting.
He really does seem to be concerned.
“I do not know,” I said. “I suppose I am well enough.”
“Well enough?” he asked. “That tells me little of how you really feel. Were you harmed?”
My thoughts raced, my heart thundering.
“I was not hurt,” I said, beginning there. “Thankfully. However, it was certainly a distressing thing to witness the attack.”
He looked over at me, his gaze steady.
“You can speak to me of it, you know,” he said. “It might make you feel better to share what happened.”
I looked up at him, hesitating.
“I realize that you and I do not know one another awfully well,” he said, leaning forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “But we have gone through a tragic ordeal together with my uncle and it has created a sort of bond between us.”
My palms became slick with sweat. Had I not heard something similar about Mr. Miller in Brighton? After he and I had endured the death of his wife together, he had become horrendously fixed on me, as if I were some sort of solvent for his agonizing pain. He saw me as almost angelic and it was deeply inappropriate. I had known it all along and never returned his interest.
However, with Mr. Jerome, it was different. Entirely different. Both of us had a connection of some sort with the Colonel. Each of us had a motive for searching for the truth about his death. We had concern for Mrs. Montford and could not allow the injustice of her husband’s death to stand. We had worried over Mrs. Montford’s safety and that of the other members of the household. The fear had been heavy, consistent, and seemingly infinite until the answers were found.
With Mrs. Miller, all I had wanted to do was put the matter behind me. I had regretted getting involved in the first place. I had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time and managed to get myself wrapped up in an unraveling family dispute that I never should have had any part of. The fear had been real but my association with it had been entirely emotional, all fear and sorrow and frustration. My desire to help Mrs. Montford, to find the Colonel’s killer, had been different.