Lord Francis laughed shortly. “Now that is more than likely. She was apt to set all the foibles of the family at his door.”
“I should not say so now, I suppose, but she was the most quarrelsome wretch,” said Lady Dalesford. “We never did see eye to eye, and she was not in the least afraid of me.”
“Did you quarrel openly with her, then?” Ottilia asked.
“Oh, we had words now and then, but I know that whenever we did so, Emily took it out on Randal, for he told me so.”
“Let us not forget, my dear sister,” put in Lord Francis dryly, “that Randal gave as good as he got.”
“Very true. I declare, it would not have surprised me to hear that Randal beat her.”
Sybilla suddenly slammed the flat of her hand upon the table. “Be silent! Next you will say you are not surprised if he strangled her.”
Lady Dalesford looked struck for a moment, and then dissolved into hiccupping tears as she protested. “That is grossly unfair, Mama. I never said it. Never thought it. I know Randal would never —” She broke off, sniffing desperately as she attempted to stifle her distress. Colonel Tretower, looking decidedly embarrassed, addressed himself to his plate, and Lord Francis silently handed his sister a pocket-handkerchief.
Ottilia was once more prompted to pour calm on troubled waters. “It does sound to have been a most uncomfortable marriage. I have been wondering whether Lord Polbrook has been in the habit of taking off at random. I seem to recall your saying, Lord Francis, that he has been a frequent visitor to Paris?”
It seemed to Ottilia that he dragged his attention to the question with an effort.
“Paris? Yes, I did say so. At least, he went often to France. I would not swear to his ultimate destination, but he was fully conversant with everything that was happening in the capital. The turmoil over there was increasingly a worry to him.”
Ottilia heard this with a leap of interest. “Now, why?”
Beside her, Colonel Tretower took up the question with obvious relief. “Is it not the part of us all to be concerned? Apart from a general empathy with those being victimised, it is surely setting a precedent that must trouble landowners everywhere.”
“Yes, but why so particularly?” Ottilia pursued. She looked across the table to Lord Francis. “Would you say your brother’s interest was beyond that of most of his acquaintance?”
The dark eyes were studying her, she thought, as if he sought to fathom where she might be leading. He did not answer at once, but appeared to consider the question with care, until his mother grew impatient.
“Well?”
He appeared undismayed by the snap in her voice, merely taking a meditative sip of wine. “I think so,” he said at last.
“I should say his concern was inordinate. He raised the point in the House several times, calling for action from the government.”
“I had no knowledge of this,” complained the dowager.
“Nor had I until it was brought to my attention.”
“Who brought it to your attention, sir?” asked Ottilia swiftly.
“Why, Randal himself. A few days ago, now I think of it. He was beside himself with fury, declaring that if those in authority would not make a move, he would be obliged to act.”
“He did not say what form of action he had in his head?”
Lord Francis looked regretful. “Unfortunately not. I took it for one of his ranting threats. He is prone to make them and then do nothing. To be truthful, I lent but half an ear to the tirade.”
“Well, why should you do otherwise?” chimed in his sister, who had recovered her composure. “I declare, he was apt to give me a headache when he began upon those rampages of his.”
Ottilia was almost betrayed into laughter. “Rampages?”
“Well, stamping about and roaring like a beast,” said his fond sister dismissively. “He was like it from a child, you must know.”
Ottilia glanced at Sybilla, fearing another outburst. But the dowager remained silent, sending only a flicker of irritation from the black eyes towards her daughter.
“What significance can you draw from all this?” Colonel Tretower enquired of her, saving the day.
“I am not sure I can draw one, but I recall Mr. Jardine speaking of an intention Lord Polbrook had in his mind. Indeed, Mr. Jardine appeared wholly unmoved by his lordship having left the country. I cannot help feeling that this intense interest in the welfare of the disenfranchised French gentry has some bearing upon the matter of Lord Polbrook’s departure.”
“An inference much to be preferred to the alternative,” said Lord Francis feelingly.
Ottilia looked at him, and had spoken the thought in her mind before she could judge the wisdom of letting it out.
“Yes, but I am not at all certain that it may not provide exactly the motive we are seeking to avoid.”
Since the lady’s maid Venner had not been on the premises upon the fatal night, it had not seemed politic to Ottilia to attempt to question her on the same basis as the other domestics, which would inevitably put up the woman’s back. She racked her brains for an opportunity to no purpose during the rest of the evening, and then fortune favoured her just as the countess pronounced she was ready to take to her bed.
“I will look in on Candia on my way. I was thinking to offer her to share my bed, for I daresay the poor child would prefer not to sleep alone.”
“An excellent notion,” approved Sybilla. “Otherwise we shall have Venner wishing to remove the truckle bed from my room to sleep in there with her, and I need the woman in a fit state to serve me.”
“Are you going up now, Mama? Shall I send her to you?”
“No, for I wish to talk to Francis.”
The countess left the room and Ottilia immediately rose. “You will wish to be private, ma’am.”
That this was patently the case was borne out by a look exchanged between Lord Francis and his friend Tretower, who instantly also got up to take his leave.
“It was kind of you to feed me, Lady Polbrook.”
“It is the least we can do.” The dowager held out her hand to him. “I have not said so, but I am indebted to you, Colonel.”
“Not in the least, ma’am.” He bowed over her hand, kissing her fingertips lightly. “I am only too happy to be of service.”
Ottilia, having said good night, was about to follow him from the room when Sybilla stayed her.
“One moment, my dear. Will you be so good as to warn Venner that I will be up within the half hour? Pray ask her to fetch me a cup of hot milk and to be sure to see the sheets are warmed.”
“Certainly, ma’am. Good night.”
Ottilia hurried up the stairs, passing the first flight and carrying on up to the second floor, where her own room was situated and where Lady Dalesford had perforce also been accommodated. But the other two chambers, she understood, were assigned to the younger members of the household. It was not difficult to catch the muted voices that must lead her to Lady Candia’s room, and once there she put her ear to the door with the hope of identifying them. Hearing the countess’s light tones and a deeper response reassured Ottilia that her hope the lady’s maid had not yet left the chamber was not misplaced.
Standing back, she waited in the vestibule. Within a few moments, she heard footsteps within and the door opened. Venner’s thin features were illuminated by Ottilia’s candle and she saw them overlaid with distress. It vanished as she caught sight of Ottilia.
“Mrs. Draycott!”
Ottilia kept her voice low. “I beg your pardon, Miss Venner. I did not wish to disturb Lady Candia, but I have a message for you from her ladyship.”
She delivered the communication, and then turned deliberately as the woman started down the stairs and kept pace just behind her.
“How is Lady Candia?”
“How could she be?” countered the lady’s maid sourly. “The poor dear dove.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Ottilia warmly. “It is so very sad f
or the children.”
“Sad?” uttered the other in accents peculiarly savage. “Oh yes, sad enough to be losing your mother. If only she were worthy of the name!”
She then put a hand to her mouth as if she regretted having spoken, but Ottilia seized on the slip.
“I think you were not over fond of the marchioness, Miss Venner.” The maid halted in the middle of the next flight and her eyes flashed. Ottilia hastily added, “Forgive me, Miss Venner, if I am taking a liberty. I would not mention it for the world, if it were not pertinent to the cause.”
The woman’s gaze narrowed as the wrath died out of it. “Cause?”
Ottilia sighed with exaggerated care. “You cannot be ignorant of the fact that everything points to the marquis in this unhappy affair.”
The maid looked startled. She put up her hand and a couple of fingers ran over her mouth in a gesture betraying her unease. Then she turned and went quickly down the rest of the flight.
Ottilia hurried after her. “Miss Venner!”
The woman stopped in the vestibule and looked back. “Not here.” It was a harsh whisper. She jerked her head as if to indicate that Ottilia should follow and slipped into the dowager’s bedchamber. Moving to the chest below the bed, she took a taper from a silver container and begged a light from Ottilia’s candle.
“My lady likes the place as bright as day,” she said as she began putting the flame to the wicks in the wall sconces. “Not like my lady Emily. Preferred the dark, she did. Darkened rooms for darkened deeds.”
Ottilia kept her station by the door, feeling strangely disquieted by the creature’s manner. But the questions must be asked. She went for an attack direct.
“Miss Venner, why did you leave her late ladyship’s service?”
The woman paused in her task, and the taper in her hand, which was poised towards a wick, trembled a little, setting the flame adrift.
“How could I stay?” The tone was low and vibrant. “How soothe my conscience? Bad enough to be cajoled into conniving, party to her deceits and lies. But to stoop below her station? And then expect me to pretend I did not know? To be a laughing stock among my colleagues, yea, even to the lowest kitchen maid or the boot boy? No, I could not.”
A shudder ran through her and the taper burned out. Ottilia kept silent, her thoughts whirling. She longed to ask for enlightenment, though enough had been said to add fuel to a suspicion that had been burgeoning these few days. To gain time, she set down her candle and went to the chest for another taper. Lighting it, she moved to complete the work the lady’s maid had started.
Venner did not appear to notice. She went to the bed and drew the curtains around one side and the foot, leaving the point of entry open. Then she turned and sat plump upon the bed, watching Ottilia’s motions.
“I would have left her long since, but my heart misgave me.” The tone was quieter now, a deadness within it that wrung Ottilia’s sympathy more than had the passion. “I promised her mother I would look after my lady. And, God help me, I loved her dearly! And how was I repaid?”
The bitter note entered in at the end brought Ottilia across to sit near her on the bed in a companionable way.
“You were not appreciated.” She made it a statement.
The woman’s head came up, a fierce look in her face. The harshness returned to her voice. “What did I care for that? I knew what she was from the first. I expected no return of my affection. I was, after all, merely her personal maid, a servant. My lady Emily had no feelings to spare for servants. Nor indeed for anyone, bar the boy. Oh, the boy!”
“You mean Giles? Her son?”
Venner nodded. “He could do no wrong. Giles this, Giles that, until I wanted to scream. ‘What of your daughter? Is she nothing to you?’ And here is the poor sweet babe, weeping her little heart away, and all for the sake of that harlot.”
Chapter 11
Ottilia half feared the lady’s maid was a trifle unhinged. Hard to know if it was habitual or induced by the press of events. She ventured to pursue the matter.
“Harsh words, Miss Venner. Was her ladyship so very bad?”
“Worse. Oh, they’ll think me evil to say so.” Who would, Ottilia wondered? The other servants? But she reserved the question, unwilling to risk closing off the woman’s tongue. “But they had not to set the candle in the window when the house was all abed. They had not to wait in the shivering dark for the furtive knock at the door and draw the bolts to let him in. Nor rise again before the lowest menial ceased his snores and creep to shut the secret out that none might know who came and went.”
“Who came, Miss Venner?” Ottilia asked, low-voiced, her imagination painting a vivid image of the marchioness’s clandestine amours. “Who came and went?”
Venner emitted a noise of disgust, shifting her whole upper body as if to shrug the memories from her. “Oh, they changed with the years. She tired of them soon enough. First one, then another when the first was out of favour.”
“Did any of them come back into favour?”
“Only the bully Quaife. He’d battle with her once too often and be dismissed. But the months would pass and she’d forget and take him back again.”
Gently, Ottilia probed, hoping the woman was too lost in reminiscence to be aware of being questioned. “There were others, you said?”
“I knew them only as shadows.”
“You did not know who they were?”
“She’d greet them by name when I took them up, but I paid no mind. Do you think I wanted to know?”
“Memory is a wayward thing,” Ottilia said. “We do not always realise how much we remember.”
The maid looked at her, the eyes sharp and urgent. “You’d like to think one of them killed her and not his lordship. I’ve not been next or nigh my lady for six years. How do I know who came and went?”
“Who would know? Mary Huntshaw perhaps? Do you suppose she performed the same offices for her ladyship?”
A scornful snort came from Venner’s mouth. “What, that mouse? If my lady had dared trust her!”
“Then how could she entertain if she had not means of introducing the gentlemen?”
“Gentlemen! I’ve a word better than that — even for them as had legitimate title to it.”
“But how could they enter, Miss Venner?” Ottilia persisted.
A sullen expression entered the woman’s features. “She’d keys enough. I know. She made me go to the locksmith for ‘em. I told her it was a danger, but I wouldn’t put it past her to give one over.”
“Keys to which door? And how many?”
“There’s only one door safe enough in the night hours. She used it herself to go out in secret, that’s why she wanted the key.”
“You said there was more than one.”
“Two, in case she lost one. She was never tidy.”
Ottilia was about to ask for the specific door again when the maid suddenly grasped her arm. “If you’re wise, you’ll leave this. They’ll not hang his lordship. What does it matter who killed her? It won’t bring her back.”
“No, but I’m afraid you are too sanguine. If Lord Polbrook is tried by his peers in the House of Lords, as things stand there is little doubt he will be found guilty.”
Venner’s stare became intent and her grip tightened. But she said nothing. Ottilia held her gaze.
“I need your help. I need names. You have mentioned Quaife. But the others? Please think, Miss Venner.”
The lady’s maid released her arm and sat back. She gave another dismissive shake of her shoulders. “I don’t know. Theo, I think. Another may have been a Jeremy. But you’ll not find the man you look for among these, not if I know it.”
“Why not?”
A peal of laughter broke from Venner’s mouth, a mirthless sound akin to the screech of a madwoman. Ottilia flinched a little, setting her teeth against a surge of revulsion.
The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the maid rose smartly from the bed and headed for
the door.
“I’ve to fetch the milk and send up a maid with the warming pan.”
Her manner had reverted to the normal sour reserve. She opened the door and pointedly stood back from it, looking towards Ottilia.
Ottilia got up, feeling as if she had been granted an interview that was now at an end. There seemed nothing for it but to take her departure. When the two of them were outside the door and Venner had closed it, she turned.
“I must thank you, Miss Venner —”
“Don’t.” The fire was back in the creature’s eyes. “Do you think it gives pleasure to me to revile her? She’s been punished. That is enough. It is not for me to judge if she came by her deserts.”
With which the woman thrust her head down between hunched shoulders and went on her way with rapid gait. Ottilia was left wondering how in the world Sybilla bore with the creature.
Lurid dreams disturbed Ottilia’s repose, peopled by unnamed shadows, flittering candle flames, and sensual groans arising from a tangled panorama of shifting shapes within a curtained interior from which the ghastly bulging features of Emily, Lady Polbrook, rose in disembodied form.
Ottilia strained awake and lay panting in the dark, her heart pounding, her body sluggish and heavy. The contorted visage of the woman Venner, mouth open in maniacal laughter, hung like a pall in her mind’s eye as Ottilia slowly came out of the torpor of sleep. Common sense tapped on the walls, and even as she recognised the origin of the unquiet dreams, the image began to fade. A clink outside her immediate environment sharpened her senses, and a memory leapt into her head.
Keys! Venner had spoken of keys.
Emily had two keys to a convenient door. Ottilia cursed inwardly as she remembered she had forgotten to ask which door. But there was a key. She must test for a fit, but which door?
A horrid thought threw her into near panic. In the commotion over discovering the theft of the jewel box, she had forgotten to ask Sybilla to leave the drawer of the night table intact. Heaven send the key had not been thrown away!
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 17