A Matter of Grave Concern

by Novak, Brenda

  Her scalp tingled with apprehension and embarrassment as she extricated her hand from inside her bodice.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Miss McTavish.” His voice was a deep baritone, thicker and richer than honey. “I can see you are quite busy, but I think you know why I am here.”

  Ignoring the subtle taunt, Rachel descended the ladder, half-wishing she could stay where she was, well out of his reach. She felt like a bird unwisely abandoning the safety of its cage to flit about the nose of a cat.

  But she knew the relative security of the ladder was an illusion. The earl was nothing like his small, bespectacled solicitor, in looks or in manner, and would not be so easily routed.

  “I have nothing to say to you, sir. I’ve told Mr. Lewis and your butler, Linley, so before, and on more than one occasion.”

  “So you have.” He smiled but no kindness entered his amber-colored eyes. “Perhaps they didn’t mention that I am willing to make your cooperation well worth the effort.”

  Lord Druridge possessed a full head of dark, wavy hair and stood several inches taller than most men. Once on an equal footing with him, Rachel had to tilt her head back to look into his face, a visage hard and lean enough to remind her of the hungry wolves fabled to have roamed the countryside. Although he had probably just shaved, the shadow of a heavy beard darkened his jaw. And he was wearing gloves, but she’d heard that scars from the fire at Blackmoor Hall two years ago marked his left hand, extending as far up his sleeve as one could see.

  “Your man mentioned a large purse, but I am not interested. My father is dead. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Your father may be dead, but by the narrowest of margins, I am not.” The earl took a step toward her, his face losing all pretense of civility. “I won’t rest until I learn what happened the day the fire killed my wife and the child she carried—”

  “Someone else’s babe, by all reports.” Rachel uttered the words before she could check them, but once they were out, she refused to feel the least penitent, despite the sudden clenching of Lord Druridge’s jaw. Most likely no one had ever dared say such a thing to his face, although the villagers, even his own servants, gossiped about his late wife’s many dalliances and anything else that had to do with him or his family.

  “Already I see you know more than you led my solicitor to believe,” he said, catching her in her own words. “Please, continue to speak freely.”

  “I know nothing. Only that you had as much reason to set the fire at Blackmoor Hall as anyone,” she said. “Mr. Lewis told me what Linley claims to have found, but I don’t believe it. And I am not so impressed with your power or your money as some might be. I will not let you intimidate me.”

  The earl’s hand snaked out to grab her elbow. “If you are not intimidated, you should be,” he said. “I hold the lease on this building as well as your home. I could turn you and your family out, and will do so if I must. I will have my answers, one way or another.”

  Fear raised the hair on Rachel’s arms as she tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away. She wanted to put some distance between them, to escape the subtle smell of soap that clung to his body. “Isn’t it enough that you had my father sacked when you knew—had to know—he was dying?”

  He released her, but his body remained taut, like a tightly coiled spring. “I sent your father away from the colliery because he was a blustering drunk with a penchant for starting trouble. He’d been warned before.” The earl made an impatient gesture with his hand. “But I haven’t come to justify my actions. Believe what you will of me, Miss McTavish, only speak the truth. What do you know about the fire at Blackmoor Hall?”

  “My father had nothing to do with it.”

  “More than one man has pointed me in his direction.”

  “Because Lewis and Linley go around plying various miners with their insidious questions, and my father is a likely scapegoat. He had just lost his job; he was angry. He said some things he shouldn’t have, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  The earl’s eyes seemed to glow with an inner light. “Neither does it give him much to lose.”

  Rachel lifted her chin. “He had his family. He wouldn’t have wanted us to suffer because of his actions—”

  “From what I know of Jack McTavish, he rarely took the suffering of others into consideration,” he broke in. “Regardless, I am not looking to falsely accuse anyone, even a ghost.”

  “Then look elsewhere for your murderer, my lord.”

  “I will go where my questions lead me. Unfortunately for both of us, they have brought me here.”

  “A waste of your time, surely.”

  “Not if you hope to retain your home.”

  She swallowed hard. “More threats, my lord? Well, consider this: If you turn us out, you will never get your answers.”

  Rachel looked past him through the window, hoping someone would enter the shop so she wouldn’t have to be alone with him any longer. But she saw, for the first time, that a liveried footman stood outside. No doubt he worked for Druridge and had been set there to ensure his master’s privacy, as if the presence of the Druridge carriage wasn’t enough to discourage all but the boldest of souls from entering.

  “It would seem we have reached an impasse,” he said.

  Feeling helpless in the face of his persistence, Rachel eyed him. The earl could send his solicitor or his trusted butler to press her or appear any number of times himself, and he could stay as long as he liked. She could do nothing about it. To make matters worse, her mother was bedridden with a raging fever. If he turned them out, they’d have nowhere to go.

  “Please, let us be,” she said, lowering her voice. “My mother is ill, I have a young brother to care for, and I have much to do here. I cannot help you.”

  He skewered her with a pointed stare. “Believe me when I say I am sorry for your misfortune, Miss McTavish. But I think you can help me, and if you know what is good for you, you will. You may have no interest in money, although it appears you sorely need it”—his gaze ranged over her simple dress, making her doubly aware of its threadbare state—“but I have something of much greater value to offer.”

  “I don’t care what you have, my lord. You can evict us if you want, but my answer will not change.” Brave words, for a coward.

  “Even for a competent physician to attend your mother?”

  Rachel’s breath caught and held. A physician? Besides an old drunk called Smedlin, Creswell had no expert in the healing arts. And thanks to the terrible weather over the previous two weeks, she had been unable to convince anyone more capable to traverse the long road from Newcastle.

  “I doubt a doctor could do anything more than I have—”

  “You don’t know that, do you?”

  She’d been bluffing when she’d thumbed her nose at his threat to toss them into the street. She could never allow him to do that. The promise of a doctor baited the hook better still. . . .

  “Dr. Jacobsen is a fine physician,” the earl continued as though sensing her weakness. “He is staying at Blackmoor Hall this very instant. I need only send my carriage to bring him to your cottage.” He raised his eyebrows while absently massaging his left hand—his scarred hand.

  Fleetingly, Rachel wondered if it pained him. Any scarring would be a pity, considering it blemished a manly form as close to perfection as she had ever seen. Maybe Druridge’s face was a bit too exaggerated in its planes and angles, a bit too hard-edged to be considered handsome. But a woman could never complain about the rest of him. Thanks to his broad shoulders, lean waist and long legs, she couldn’t help feeling a bit . . . dazzled in spite of her feelings where he was concerned. It didn’t help that he wore his expensive clothing—a calf-length, green cape, beige trousers and a black coat with matching waistcoat—with an indifferent air that suggested he’d just as soon be garbed in something simple as something so obviously rich. His physique, and how fluidly he moved, set him apart from any other man she’d ever met, especially w
hen she compared him to the stooped miners that comprised the better part of the village.

  “No.” Ignoring the raw magnetism that emanated from him like steam rising from a lake, she crossed her arms in a decisive manner. “My mother will be fine. She merely needs her rest.”

  “Certainly the three of you will rest easier once Dr. Jacobsen has taken a look at her. . . .”

  Not if Jillian knew what she had to trade for the visit. And her mother would guess at first sight of a gentleman doctor. Accepting help from the earl, the one man Jillian blamed for the death of her eldest son and, less directly, her husband, would be enough to send her to the grave. Besides, after all Rachel had secretly done to unite the coal workers against Druridge, her sense of honor wouldn’t tolerate any kind of alliance with him.

  “You have received my answer. She will recover,” she said and prayed she spoke the truth.

  The earl studied her for several seconds. Then he said, “I will allow you some time to think about my offer. I ask only that you answer a few questions in exchange for Dr. Jacobsen’s visit.” He gave her a stiff, mocking bow. “I hope you will reconsider before it’s too late,” he added. Then he strode through the door and disappeared into the dark interior of his large coach.

  Rachel hovered over her mother’s bed. “How do you feel?” she whispered.

  The wasted figure that was Jillian McTavish nodded weakly. Her skin was as waxy and pale as a yellow moon; her eyes looked like huge pits in her sunken face. “Well enough, daughter.”

  “I’ll see ye in the mornin’,” called a soft feminine voice from the other room, and Rachel realized that she hadn’t said good-bye to Mrs. Tate, the neighbor who sat with her mother and younger brother while she minded the shop.

  She caught the older woman as she was stepping outside. “Thank you. I know it’s not an easy thing,” she said, her voice faltering.

  “’Tis better me watchin’ it than ye,” Mrs. Tate responded. “You’re sufferin’ right along with ’er, that ye are.”

  A tear trickled down Rachel’s face, but she swiped at it. “We cannot always choose what happens to us. But we can choose how we handle what does.” She echoed her mother’s oft-repeated words with more conviction than she felt. At the moment, she wondered if she could bear to be alone with Jillian. Surely it was only a matter of time. How much longer could her mother cling to that gossamer strand of life that kept her among the living?

  Mrs. Tate lowered her voice as she clasped Rachel’s hands in her own. “She will likely pass tonight. Ye need to be prepared, luv. She’s been like this for nearly a week.”

  “Part of me prays that she can be released from the pain,” Rachel whispered. “Watching her suffer is . . . it’s so terrible. But the other part . . .” She hesitated, and Mrs. Tate spared her the effort of continuing.

  “I know. We’ll all miss ’er. She’s been a pillar of strength to this village for years, teachin’ so many of us our letters.” The rotund woman shook her head and, with a squeeze of Rachel’s hands, let go. “You should know that Geordie tried to wait up for ye, but sleep got the better of ’im, poor lad.”

  She’d seen her brother curled up in his bed by the far wall; they all slept in the same room. “I had some accounts I had to go over at the shop. My mother has always taken care of the books, and I’m having a devil of a time trying to figure out what she’s done.”

  “Ye can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “Rachel? Is that you?” her mother called from the other room.

  “Go to ’er before she wakes Geordie,” Mrs. Tate said.

  Rachel felt little concern that she’d disturb Geordie. He slept too deeply. But she didn’t want to put her mother to a lot of effort. “I’m on my way.”

  “Let me know if ye need anythin’, child,” Mrs. Tate said as she left.

  Rachel forced a brief smile before closing the door and hurrying to the bedroom. Dipping her hands into the bowl of cool water on the washstand, she brought up the rag that floated inside and wrung it out so she could dab away the beads of sweat that glistened on her mother’s forehead.

  “I can’t take much more.” As Jillian tossed on the sweat-soaked sheets, a spasm gripped her frail frame, and Rachel held a bowl while she vomited a clear liquid flecked with blood.

  The Earl of Druridge and the physician he’d offered came immediately to mind. Could this Jacobsen help? Or was Rachel, tired of carrying the heavy burden of her mother’s illness alone, turning coward?

  Eventually Jillian sank back on the bed and lay without moving, leaving Rachel to stew in frightened indecision. Was Mrs. Tate right? Would her mother die this night? Or was the worst of it over?

  She glanced at Geordie, sleeping peacefully in his bed. Maybe their mother would begin to improve. . . .

  Rachel embraced that last glimmer of hope as the long hand of the mantel clock swept inexorably toward midnight. The welcome respite of sleep washed over her soon after, but she dreamed of her father’s funeral: the wooden coffin, the overpowering scent of roses, the aging church, the weed-strewn graveyard.

  The clock chimed one, waking her with a start. The wind had come up. Outside, tree branches clawed at the house, creating an eerie sound. A flurry of snowflakes fell, those close enough to the window luminescent in the light of the tallow candle that sat, flickering, on the pane.

  Rachel shivered. Tomorrow all the world would be white and cold . . . but hopefully not so cold as now. She rose to draw the drapes and stir the dying embers of the fire in the hearth. She had been raised in this small, two-room, wooden house. Still, late at night it could be a foreboding, lonely place.

  Her mother groaned, and Rachel whirled to face her bed.

  “Come sit with me, dear. I don’t have long.” Jillian’s voice cracked as she struggled to sit up.

  A lump congealed in Rachel’s throat as she rushed to prop a pillow behind her mother’s back. “Don’t talk. Rest. You need to conserve your strength.”

  Jillian’s hand clutched at Rachel’s. “You have been a good girl and made me proud. We might be poor since my father died, but no one could tell it from your carriage or your speech.” She gasped for breath, winded by the effort of communicating. “There isn’t a man around, even a gentleman, with a better head for numbers and letters. You would have made your grandfather proud.”

  The foreboding Rachel had felt all day grew stronger. Her mother’s words sounded suspiciously like a farewell. “Mum, listen to me. The Earl of Druridge came to the shop today—”

  “What?” Her eyes flew wide, shining with the false luster of sickness. “Oh Rachel, you mustn’t speak to him. Promise me you won’t—” A bout of coughing rendered her speechless, and Rachel took advantage of the opportunity to interrupt.

  “He only wants the truth, Mum. Perhaps he has a right to know, at least as much as we can tell him—”

  “No!” Her mother’s fingers curled into the flesh of Rachel’s arm. “You don’t understand . . . I have feared this day”—she swallowed hard—“tried to protect you, all of us, against it—”

  “Hush.” Feeling guilty for having broached the subject, Rachel patted her mother’s hand. She had hoped to achieve release from a promise made years ago, but she now feared her mother wasn’t strong enough to withstand such a flood of emotion. “Forget I brought it up. We can discuss it in the morning, when you’re feeling better. For now, you should rest.”

  Jillian ignored her protests. “If Lord Druridge has turned his attention on you, he will not leave things as they lie,” she wheezed. “He is a determined devil, that one. But you mustn’t tell him, Rachel.”

  “Mother—”

  “No! It was wrong of Jack to leave us with such burdens, but I will not betray him. . . . What was a woman to do? . . . Whoever thought it would come to what it did? . . . Such nasty business . . . I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. . . . wouldn’t light the fire in this cold house . . .”

  Rachel grew more worried as her mother’s words beca
me unintelligible. When she merely grunted and moaned, tossing in agitation, Rachel feared Jillian was losing her mind. She gripped her mother’s hand with a ferocity that belied her calm demeanor.

  “Don’t leave me, Mum.” The howl of the wind echoed the wail of pain in her heart. “I don’t want Geordie and me to be alone. First Tommy, then Father, now you . . . Please try to relax. Forget I said anything about the earl. I can take care of things; you know I can.”

  She fell silent. Her mother’s eyelashes rested on her paper-thin cheeks as Rachel watched the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, waiting, hoping and praying that she would survive. But then the truth crystallized in her mind, lending her fresh determination, and she accepted what she had known deep inside from the beginning. So long as there existed the smallest chance to save her mother’s life, she would do anything, sacrifice anything, promise or no.

  Releasing her mother’s hand, Rachel rushed to the coat rack to retrieve a heavy, wool cape.

  “Rachel . . . ?”

  Reluctantly, Rachel retraced her steps as far as the door to the bedroom.

  “Where are you going? We must discuss this.” Jillian gasped for breath. “Just give me a chance to recover my strength.”

  “We will have all the time we want in the morning, Mother,” Rachel gently insisted, steady now that the decision had been made. “I am going out, but I will get Mrs. Tate. She will be here if you or Geordie need anything.”

  “Wait,” her mother called.

  But Rachel had no time to spare. She had wasted far too many days and hours already, holding herself to a promise she could not keep. “I love you, Mum. Just rest. I will be back shortly.” She tossed the last of her words over her shoulder as she rushed to the front door, where she raised her hood and plunged outside, into the biting cold.

  The fire in Truman’s study popped and crackled, a singularly comforting sound as he bowed over the ledgers strewn across his desk. The servants had long since gone to bed. Even Linley had retired. Only Wythe was up; at least, Truman assumed he was up. He wasn’t home. Although his cousin never said how he spent his evenings, Truman had heard enough to know he frequented Elspeth’s, the village brothel, on a regular basis. He guessed Wythe was there now. Newcastle was too far away to visit more than once a fortnight, and country society offered little by way of late-night entertainment.