Marblestone Mansion, Book 5

by Marti Talbott

  “Before,” Savanna repeated. “I wonder who the father is?”

  “I wonder who the father is not,” Lady Wilcox whispered.

  “Why does it matter?” Lady Benton asked.

  Maude quickly answered. “It matters because our Olivia is missing, and we know not if her daughter is being well cared for?”

  “Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” said Lady Benton.

  “Did you inquire at her hotel?” Laura asked. “Perhaps she left her daughter there.”

  Put on the spot, Maude glanced at all the eyes watching her. “I have not.”

  “Surely a mother leaves her child in safe hands when she sets out to attend a ball,” said Laura. “We need not worry after all.”

  “I suppose not,” Maude conceded. “Yet, there remains the question of why you insist Olivia be put out, if she tries to attend a ball?”

  “Did I not explain it to your satisfaction?” Laura asked. “Next, you shall say it is I who had Olivia gotten rid of.” Several of the other women nervously laughed, but the glare in Laura’s eyes was forbidding enough for even Maude’s discomfort. “I insist because the Duke of Glenartair finds her company distasteful, and I mean to honor his wishes. If she is allowed to attend the events of the season, Lord Bayington and I shall not.”

  Laura let the subject drop and so did all the others, but by the time it was appropriate for Laura to make her excuses and have her driver take her home, she was in a panic.

  *

  Lady Laura Bayington took just a moment to hug her adopted son and daughter, before she rushed up the stairs, threw open the door to her husband’s bedchamber and was relieved to find him sitting up in bed reading a newspaper.

  “Laura, you look all a flutter. What is it?”

  She ripped off her hat, flung herself on the bed beside him and welcomed it when he wrapped his arms around her. “Blair.”

  “Our Blair? Is she hurt?”

  “Not our Blair, the other one…Addie. Maude Okerman knows Olivia has a daughter and has exposed it to the world. She asked if I knew how to find her.”

  “Oh, dear, did you lie, I hope.”

  “Of course I lied. I said I did not know Olivia had a child, but beloved, Maude accuses Hannish of bigamy. What does it mean? Who hired the detective and why does Maude Okerman, of all people, care where Olivia’s daughter is?”

  Edward kissed her forehead, withdrew his arms, and threw the covers back so he could sit on the edge of his bed. “We must go to Scotland and warn them at once.”

  “You are not well enough.”

  “I declare myself fully recovered. Send for my footman and gather our children. We have just enough time to catch the last train.”

  “But Edward…”

  “Laura,” he said raising his voice as he reached for his pants. “Do as I say. We have let Alice interfere in our lives long enough.”

  “What do you mean to do?”

  “Laura, get on with it – now!”

  *

  Lord Stockton had a great deal more to do, than the idle lords of London. He had land to see to, and he was not above getting his hands dirty when the need arose. On this afternoon, he was digging a ditch so more creek water could flow into one of his fields.

  His mansion in the distance cast off a bluish tent in the late afternoon sun, and he was too tired to put up with any nonsense from anyone, including the stranger he spotted in the distance riding a horse toward him. He had just enough time to dig two more shovels full of dirt out of the ground and cast them aside, before the stranger dismounted and approached.

  “Lord Stockton, I am Fletcher Garrott.”

  Stockton ignored him and with his foot, pushed his shovel into the ground once more. “I heard you might come this way.”

  “Then you know I am trying to find Alexandra Sinclair.”

  Stockton chuckled, capped both gloved hands over the end of the shovel handle and looked Garrott in the eye. “Alexandra Sinclair is not who she claims to be.”

  “Who do you think she is?”

  “Her name is Olivia MacGreagor.”

  “I have heard she uses that name.”

  “It is hers to use, and I should know, I attended her wedding. At the time, half the men in the wedding party were relieved Hannish was willing to take her off our hands.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt you do.” He went back to his digging and ignored Garrott.

  “Lord Stockton, the lady’s maid at the hotel said she saw you put Alex…Olivia in a carriage and then leave in one of your own.”

  “She told you wrong. By the time I arrived, Olivia was already gone.”

  “There was another man, one who came for her before you?”

  “I see no other explanation. If you find him, do express my eternal gratitude.” He stopped digging again. “Did Maude Okerman hire you?”

  “Lady Okerman? Why would she hire me?”

  “Word is, she is consumed with finding Olivia and has been for quite some time. It was she who encouraged me, in the strongest possible terms, to escort Olivia to the ball.”

  Garrott wrinkled his brow. “I wonder why?”

  “I know not.”

  “Can you think of any place Olivia might have gone?”

  “If you find her daughter, you might find Olivia.”

  “Her daughter?”

  Lord Stockton removed a glove, dug in his pocket, pulled out a watch and checked the hour. “It is all just hearsay, mind you. There was a time when some said Olivia claimed to have a daughter. No one has ever seen the child, and what married man with his wits about him would want to lay claim to her. Nevertheless, there were rumors that Olivia needed money and approached one or two, offering to keep the child hidden away and knowledge of the child’s existence quiet.”

  Garrott removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “She is not Hannish MacGreagor’s child?”

  “No, no, she was born before her marriage to Hannish.”

  “I see.”

  “If you wish to make it back to London before dark, Mr. Garrott, you best leave now.”

  Garrott nodded, mounted his horse and rode away.

  *

  It was on his way back from seeing Lord Stockton that Private Detective Fletcher Garrott accidently stumbled upon the answer to his personal problem. He stopped in a village to have a meal, and just as he was going into a fitting establishment, the one and only wife of Viscount Richardson was coming out. With her was the same unsavory man he had seen her with before. Garrott hid his surprise, tipped his hat and pretended to go about his business.

  Garrott watched through the window as the couple crossed the street and rounded a corner, and then he hurried out the door to follow them. As he walked, he withdrew the folding Kodak pocket camera he bought just the day before, and pulled the folds out. Cautiously, he slipped around the corner of the shop and as he hoped, found the couple in a heated embrace. Garrott brought the camera up to his eye, found the couple in his viewfinder and snapped the picture. The click didn’t seem to disturb them, so he wound the film and got ready to take another picture. This time, he said, “Look here.” Just as he hoped, they both turned and he snapped the second picture.

  Before the man could react, Garrott raced back around the corner and darted across the street. He shoved the camera back in his pocket, mounted his horse and rode swiftly away. When he looked back, both the Viscount’s wife and the man were standing in the middle of the street shaking their fists at him.

  Satisfied with his accomplishment, he headed back to London to find a place to develop the film. After that, he fully intended to present his case to his former employer, if not to the Viscount himself. He meant to have his position back, and the pictures would surely do the trick.

  *

  The next day, Fletcher Garrott realized his mistake. He went back to the hotel, and asked the lady’s maid for a description of the man who came to pick Olivia up that night. It cost him another two pounds.

/>   Next, he went to give his report to Solicitor John Crisp. With no secretary, the solicitor’s office was starting to get messy again, and Garrott had to clear off a chair before he could sit down.

  For fully three minutes, Crisp sat staring at, but not seeing, the papers spread out on his desk. “She has a daughter?”

  “Possibly,” Garrott answered. “Lord Stockton said it may only be a rumor, and that no one has ever seen the child.”

  “I did not think Alexandra kept anything from me. What a clever, yet vicious woman she is. I suppose she has abandoned the child and only God knows where it is…if indeed a daughter does exist.”

  “The lady’s maid at the hotel swears she never saw a child, nor did Mrs. Sinclair mention one.”

  Crisp rubbed his pain ridding temples with both hands. “Mrs. Sinclair might know.”

  “Mrs. Sinclair? I thought you said Alexandra is Mrs. Sinclair.”

  “She is…or was. She was the first Mrs. Sinclair. The second is none to pleasant, but she might know if Alexandra had a child.” Crisp opened a desk drawer, pulled out an elixir bottle, removed the cap and took a swig. “Bribe her if you have to. I would like to know if a child truly exists, and to whom she might belong.”

  “Is she your child?”

  Solicitor Crisp laughed. “I assure you, she is not mine. If ever you see Alexandra, you will more fully understand. She is the most attractive woman I have ever seen. Now, what did the man look like who came to get her?”

  “The hotel maid said he was about my build with dark hair and a goatee.”

  Crisp closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Adam Sweeney, I might have known.”

  “Your secretary?”

  “The same. Oh, I do hope he has not hurt her.”

  “Have you any reason to suspect he would?”

  “Not precisely. Sweeny showed up quite unexpected, and not long after my prior secretary took his leave. I needed his help, but I confess I found the man suspicious from the very beginning.”

  Garrott removed his hat, crossed his legs and rested his hat on his knee. “Yet, he did not get in the carriage with her.”

  “That’s right, you said that earlier. Nevertheless, Sweeney was party to her abduction and he is in it somehow.”

  “Perhaps he left a clue in his desk?”

  Crisp quickly got to his feet and went to the outer office. “You take his desk and I’ll see what I can find on the bookshelves.”

  Garrott put his hat back on and followed. An hour later, the outer office was in shambles and still there was no hint of where Adam Sweeney came from, or intended to go when he left.

  *

  Abigail knocked on Marblestone’s front door three times before a haggard Butler Prescot finally let her in. As soon as she stepped into the foyer, the reason for the delay was abundantly clear. Moan’s three daughters were at it again and this time the whole place was in uproar. Servants tried to block the entryway to the dining room, as one screaming girl with a book in her hand raced past, staying just out of reach of her sisters who were in hot pursuit.

  “I’ll not give it back!” Paulette screamed.

  “You said I could read it next,” Mary demanded.

  Ten months older than her sister, Janna still could not outrun Mary and brought up the rear. “Nay, I get it next!”

  “Which book is it,” Abigail asked Prescot.

  “One they are not allowed to read.”

  “Does their mother do nothing?”

  Prescot sighed. “She has gone to town.”

  “Oh, I see.” Abigail paused to listen as the girls ran down a hallway on the second floor and then headed up to the third-floor servant’s quarters.

  Finding Dugan and Shepard blocking their path, Paulette was forced to stop and when she did, Mary grabbed the book, turned around and barely made it past Jenna on her way down. The race was on again, only this time it was Mary who was trying to get away.

  “Give it back!” Paulette screamed. The sound of her voice echoed through the entire house and made Prescot cringe in defeat.

  “Is there nothing you can do?” Abigail asked. The girls were coming back down the stairs, and she moved to stand behind Prescot for protection.

  “I have reported their behavior to Mr. Moan, he gives them a harsh talking to, but alas, it does no good.”

  Abigail let out a short shriek as Mary headed straight for them, yanked the front door open and ran into the front yard. Her sisters immediately followed, and at last the screaming and yelling left the house.

  “Mr. Prescot, I suggest you lock them out.”

  “Dare I do it?” Prescot asked.

  “If I say so, you do.”

  Prescot’s eyes brightened. “Excellent idea.” He hurried to the front door, turned the key and locked the door. Then he rushed into the parlor and shouted, “Lock all the doors. This time, the running on all three floors was done by servants, rushing to each of the doors leading to the outside.

  “There, that should do it,” said Abigail. “I would like a cup of tea in Leesil’s sitting room upstairs.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Whitfield, right away,” said the happy butler.

  While she waited for her tea, Abigail decided to go from room to room on the bottom floor to look for damage. In the downstairs sitting room, the girls had knocked over two plants, spreading dirt across the rug, and an expensive vase lay shattered on the floor. Abigail closed her eyes. This sitting room was Leesil’s favorite in winter, decorated in soft oranges and browns, with a touch of green for accent. Tall windows let in plenty of western sunlight, at least until the sun dropped behind Pikes Peak each evening, and when the hearth was lit, it was the perfect place to be on a cold afternoon.

  When Abigail walked back into the hallway, the elder servant, Blanka, was just coming out of her room.

  “Miss Blanka,” Abigail said, putting her hand over her heart. “How are you feeling today?”

  Blanka never had a harsh word to say about anyone, until today. “I’d be a might better if they would move out. Family is family,” she confided leaning closer and lowering her voice, “but I doubt we are truly related to the likes of them.”

  “I agree. Does this happen…” She was interrupted by loud banging on the front door.

  “If Mr. Hannish were here, ‘twould never happen.”

  “Yes, but he is not, and we must make the best of it. I have asked Mr. Prescot to bring me a cup of tea, will you join me?”

  Even though Blanka no longer had any duties, she wore her housekeeping uniform every day, complete with a lace cap pinned in her almost white hair. “I’d be pleased for the company.”

  Abigail took her arm and walked Blanka to the parlor. “Sit here, Miss Blanka,” she said motioning to the sofa. The incessant banging was intolerable so she continued on to the foyer, where Prescot was standing guard to make certain the girls didn’t get back in. “Mr. Prescot, Miss Blanka and I shall have our tea in the parlor. But first, I shall have a glass of water right away, if you please.”

  “Right away,” Prescot said, heading for the kitchen. When he came back, Abigail was waiting in the foyer and took the glass of water off the tray he carried. She moved closer to the door, and said, “Open it, Mr. Prescot.” As soon as he did, Abigail threw the water right in a startled Paulette’s face. “You are to stay out until your mother returns, and you are to stop that infernal banging!” With that, she nodded for Prescot to close the door and lock it.

  Outside, Paulette screamed her frustration, but the banging stopped and at last, Marblestone was at peace.

  Prescot lifted the tray, let Abigail set the empty glass on it, followed her into the parlor and waited until she was seated. “Thank you, Mrs. Whitfield.”

  “Where are the boys?”

  “Mr. Lenox and Mr. David went with their father this morning, and Mr. Wade is with his mother, where he cannot capture anyone. I believe she promised to take him to see the Judge,” Prescot answered.

  “In the middle o
f his murder trial?” Abigail asked. “I doubt he shall have time for a seven-year-old. Mr. Prescot, the girls have broken a vase in the downstairs sitting room. Have the pieces gathered and brought to me, and tell the servants not to clean anything up. I want their mother to see this.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Whitfield,” Prescot answered.

  “Perhaps we should not mention this to Hannish and Leesil until after they come home. No need to make them fret.”

  “I agree.” Prescot slightly bowed and left the room. He sent footman Dugan back with tea for two and two slices of cook Jessie’s famous apple pie. It was Blanka’s favorite and Dugan treated his aunt as well as he treated Mrs. Whitfield, addressing her as Mrs. MacGreagor, instead of Aunt Blanka. It was endearing and just the pick-me-up Blanka needed after having to listen to the calamity of Moan’s daughters for most of the day.

  *

  When Mrs. Moan MacGreagor and her youngest son arrived home, she was surprised to see her daughters in the front yard sitting in the grass. Pages of what was once a book lay scattered all around and her oldest daughter, Paulette, looked a fright.

  “Mrs. Whitfield threw water on me?” Paulette complained.

  “Why? Why would Mrs. Whitfield throw water on you?” Her daughter only shrugged, but Elizabeth was not fooled. “I see.” Abigail’s carriage was still there, so Elizabeth took Wade’s hand, went to the door and as soon as Prescot opened it, she went in. She was surprised when Prescot locked it behind her, but she ignored it for now.

  “Mrs. Whitfield,” Elizabeth said, walking into the parlor, “what call had you to throw water on Paulette?”

  Abigail nodded toward the pieces of the vase spread out on a silver tray on the table beside her.

  “Oh, no,” Elizabeth moaned. “‘Tis Leesil’s favorite.”

  “Her husband gave it to her for a wedding present. Perhaps you would like to see the rest of the damage. I have asked the servants not to clean it up.”

  Elizabeth sent her son upstairs, sunk into a chair and put her gloved hands over her face. “I know not what to do with them.”

  “Scrubbin’ floors might due,” Blanka suggested.

  “Did the MacGreagor of old not make their wayward children clean manure?” Abigail asked. “I believe I heard it in one of their stories.”