“Yes. I came with Miss Taylor from Ochre Court.”
“Goodness, Ochre Court? That’s one of the big ones.” She matched her steps to mine as we walked sideways into a small square hall. A tall window let in a burst of sunlight, and I blinked in the glare. The maid directed us to a cement staircase, and we descended to the coolness of a cellar. We placed our burden on a countertop, and she unlocked and opened a storeroom door. “I can take it from here.”
“No, I’ll help you bring it in and set it down. It’s no trouble.”
Her look of gratitude both warmed my heart and inflamed my guilt in deceiving her. However, it was for a good cause, and I wasted no time in attempting to draw her out. “Are you planning to attend the memorial?”
“I’m afraid I can’t be spared, not with so many of the others going. I don’t have seniority, you see.”
“I’ve offered to stay and assist, so you should be able to go if you wish.”
She compressed her lips, frowning slightly. “No . . . it’s all right. I’ll stay.”
“How long have you been with the Schuylers?”
“Only since the spring. They hired me right before they decided to lease this house for the summer. I hadn’t expected to be going so far from Philadelphia.” She sighed with longing.
“Family back there?”
“Lots of family. I’m one of eight. There’s an army of aunts and uncles and cousins, too. This is my first time away from home.” As she spoke, she turned to straighten items on the storeroom’s shelves. “Are you from here?”
“I am. I’m Emma, by the way.” I didn’t see any harm in telling her my real name, as Emma was common enough.
“I’m Cathy,” she said shyly.
“I suppose working for a family like the Schuylers was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up, even if it did take you away from home for a spell.”
“I couldn’t have turned it down.” Another sigh conveyed what I perceived to be a misgiving. I pretended not to notice.
“Such a prestigious family. And Mrs. and Miss Schuyler are both so beautiful. You must be proud to serve in such a household.” Inwardly I acknowledged that I was baiting her, and regretted having to do so.
“Yes . . . they’re lovely to look at.”
“Oh?” I studied her a moment. “Do I detect something of a qualm about your mistresses?”
“No!” Her expression turned wary, even fearful. “Of course not.”
Reaching out, I placed a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “It’s quite all right. I understand. It’s not always easy, is it, being in service?”
“If only they weren’t always arguing.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “We can hear them down here, you know. My home was always crowded, but almost always happy. It upsets me to hear it. I wish . . .”
“You wish you could go home,” I said, lowering my tone to match hers. She nodded, and a tear formed at the corner of her eye. She quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry. You didn’t come here to watch me fall apart.” She gave a weepy chuckle.
“Don’t be sorry. I certainly didn’t come here expecting to see everyone smiling. This is a very trying time for all of you.”
“I only wish I could be sorry about Judge Schuyler.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that, truly. I am sorry he died, but maybe now the shouting will stop.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
She shook her head. “Sounded as if Mrs. Schuyler would start it, and the judge would tell her she’d better hold her tongue, but what it was about, I couldn’t tell.”
“It sounds like theirs wasn’t a very happy marriage.”
“No, I don’t think it was. But when I tried asking the others, no one would tell me anything. Said to mind my business if I knew what’s good for me. They’re right, of course. Asking questions can get you tossed out without a reference.”
“Cathy, where are you, girl?”
At that impatient summons from the kitchen, she gasped and scampered away. “Coming!”
* * *
When I returned to the kitchen, I saw no sign of Nora and assumed she’d driven the buggy back to Ochre Court, as we had agreed. I continued asking questions and gleaned similar information from others belowstairs, at least from the ones willing to speak to me. Not all of them were, yet their tight-lipped reticence told a story as well. This was not a contented home, generally speaking, nor had the judge and Mrs. Schuyler been a happy couple.
But as for Imogene, I could find out little more about her, or her engagement to Jerome Harrington. It seemed the staff had no opinion on the matter. Strange.
An unexpected boon presented itself when another kitchen assistant was told to bring tea up to Imogene Schuyler’s personal maid in her room on the third floor.
“I was just going to get ready to go to the service,” the girl protested to the housekeeper.
“Do this first, and then you may get ready.” The housekeeper had already changed her clothes from the plain cotton she had worn when she admitted me earlier to a more tailored black broadcloth, probably her Sunday best. She wore a felt hat with a low brim and a netted veil.
The girl pouted, but I came to her rescue. She and I had spoken only minutes ago, while I’d helped her put away the scrubbed pots and pans from breakfast. “I could carry up the tea, ma’am,” I said to the housekeeper.
“Good, that settles it. Thank you. Laura, you may go and get ready. Be quick about it. The carriages will be leaving shortly.”
With a cup and saucer in one hand and a plate bearing a cornmeal muffin in the other, I made my way carefully up the back stairs to Miss Powell’s room beneath the eaves on the third floor. I’d also been told to hurry, as Miss Powell hadn’t had time for breakfast before getting Miss Schuyler ready for the memorial, and now she wished a quick repast before boarding the carriage with the rest of the upper servants.
“It’s about time,” she called out when I knocked on her door. She swung the door open and did a double take upon seeing me. “Who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”
So much for a thank-you. “I came from Ochre Court to help out this morning.”
“Did you, now?” She surveyed me up and down, no doubt taking in my out-of-date dress and deciding by some standards of her own that I had passed muster. “All right, bring it in and put it there.” She pointed to a dresser near the foot of the bed. Dressed in severe black, her hair pulled back in an equally stern coif, Miss Powell was not an unattractive woman—quite the opposite. But like many a lady’s maid, she had taken pains to minimize the fact. After all, it wouldn’t do for a maid to rival her mistress in beauty.
“I’m so sorry about your employer,” I said as I set down the teacup and plate. Folding my hands at my waist, I turned to regard her. “Quite a respected gentleman, Judge Schuyler.”
“Good heavens, yes. A remarkable and eminent gentleman. Many of the Four Hundred families sought his advice on a great many matters.”
“I can well imagine.” I attempted to sound slightly awed. “You must be very proud to work for the Schuylers.” Yes, proud, I decided, was exactly the right word, for I detected no grief in her countenance, only self-satisfaction to be connected to such an illustrious family.
“Of course I am. The Schuylers are old money. They’re wildly wealthy and exceedingly genteel.” I moved aside as she approached the dresser, dragging a chair away from the wall first. Using the dresser top as a table, she sat and broke off a piece of her muffin. She popped it into her mouth and spoke around the crumbs as she chewed. “Mrs. Schuyler has assured me my job is not at risk, now that her husband . . . well . . . you know.”
“That’s very good of her. Is she a very congenial lady?”
“Mrs. Schuyler?” Miss Powell looked almost affronted by the question. “She’s everything a great lady should be. Her family is also an old one, originally from France and settled in the South. Lejeune is her maiden name.�
��
I nodded, feigning interest. “But it’s her daughter you serve, isn’t it?”
She conceded this with a nod and devoured more of her muffin, washing it down with a hearty draft of tea. A portion of her enthusiasm seemed to have waned as she said, “Miss Imogene, yes.”
Perhaps she perceived less prestige in serving the daughter rather than the mother. I sighed wistfully. “I understand there was to have been a wedding soon.” I waited for her half-hearted nod, and went on. “I suppose Miss Imogene must be terribly upset to have to put off her marriage plans. Or perhaps she hasn’t had time yet to even consider such things, being deep in mourning as she is.”
“Hmm. I suppose.”
She avoided my gaze, so I took the opportunity to study her. A haughtiness had entered her expression, making her appear imperious, rather like her young mistress. For the first time, I wondered about Miss Powell’s background. Did she hail from a once-prosperous family who had fallen on hard times? I brushed the thought aside as irrelevant to my present purpose. “Who is the young man? I remember reading about the engagement. A Mr. Harrison, is it?”
“Harrington. Jerome.” She said the name without enthusiasm. She seemed about to say more, but hesitated. I waited, hoping she would enlighten me further, and was rewarded for my patience. “He’s not good enough for her, if you ask me.”
I raised my eyebrows in a show of surprise. “Are the Harringtons not a good family?”
“In background, yes. But there’s something about the son, Miss Imogene’s affianced, that irks me. In my opinion, he’s weak. Not nearly as strong a personality as Miss Imogene herself.” The pride had returned to her voice, almost as if she were speaking of her own daughter.
“You think she could do better.”
“Much better, indeed.”
“What does she think? Would she agree with you?”
Miss Powell drained her teacup and set the cup and saucer on the dresser beside the plate, empty of all now but the crumbs. She came to her feet and went to a coat stand in the corner. “She hasn’t said.”
“She doesn’t confide in you?”
The question raised a scowl as she turned back to me. I feared she considered my query impertinent and would summarily dismiss me. Rather, she mulled over her answer before saying, “Often she does. But not about her engagement. And that makes me suspect she isn’t entirely happy about it.”
“Perhaps she favors another.” I thought of my cousin Consuelo, who had loved one man while being forced by her mother to marry someone else. According to the argument I had overheard at the Elizabethan Fete, Jerome Harrington would be dependent on the money Imogene brought to the marriage, and I had assumed this lay at the root of her objections to him. But such arrangements were not at all uncommon. In fact, Consuelo had married the Duke of Marlborough under those exact circumstances. It happened all the time in society, and if Imogene had felt any affection for Jerome Harrington, the arrangement wouldn’t have deterred her. Perhaps they simply didn’t suit, or perhaps, as I had suggested, Imogene favored another man, as Consuelo had.
Who could he be?
Miss Powell had taken an overcoat from the stand and swung it around her shoulders. “If she has her sights set on someone else, he’s a mystery to me. Come here. Help me on with my hat.”
She held out a derby-shaped hat with a netted veil that would cover her face. We stood in front of the mirror as she directed me to tip it this way, tilt it that way, until she was satisfied, and then I slipped the pin through to hold it in place.
“I’d best be getting downstairs before the carriages leave.” Her chin came up, her nostrils flaring slightly. “I shall trust you to be discreet about our conversation . . . What did you say your name was?”
“Emma.”
“Emma.” She gave me an arch look. “You are to repeat none of this. Do you understand?”
If our conversation worried her so much, why had she confided in me in the first place, instead of sending me on my way, once my errand had been accomplished? “Yes, ma’am,” I assured her. “Not a word to anyone.”
“Good. Now I must go. Come along.”
I gathered up the tea things and followed her down the back staircase. She turned off at the first floor and hurried out through a door that opened onto the service drive. I continued down to the kitchen and deposited the china in the scullery. Then, after ensuring no one saw me, I turned around and retraced my steps.
Chapter 9
I hesitated partway up the back staircase. I had waited to be sure Cathy had ample tasks in the kitchen to keep her occupied. Who else might still be in the house? A lower maid, perhaps collecting the morning laundry and taking advantage of an empty house to catch up on the dusting? There was also a pair of footmen even now setting the finishing touches in the dining room for when the Schuylers returned with their guests. For what I planned to do, I needed to be careful—and quiet.
Satisfied Cathy kept no supervisory eye on me, I tiptoed up to the first floor. There, I felt tempted to pass through the swinging door and have a look around. What might the main rooms of the house tell me about the Schuylers as a family? Wishing to avoid the footmen, I resisted the urge and kept going to the second floor, where the main bedrooms were located.
Three doors opened onto the service landing. Through one of them, I spied a sewing room. The second door was locked, and I assumed it was the linen closet. Linens, like the silver, were often kept under lock and key to prevent the servants from being tempted. The third door, unlocked, gave entry into the main corridor. My surroundings immediately and dramatically changed from the plain white walls and wide oak floorboards of the servants’ landing to carved plaster ornamentation and a gleaming herringbone-patterned floor over which stretched a costly Persian Heriz runner of deep reds, blues, and greens.
Pausing in the doorway, I stood listening for some moments. All seemed utterly still, the kind of silence only possible in rooms devoid of people. I heard no rustling of bedcovers, no humming of a maid who knows there is no one to hear her.
Closed doors flanked either side of the corridor. For a moment, a sense of defeat swamped me as I considered those doors might be locked. Nevertheless, I proceeded, and to my relief, the first knob turned easily in my hand. I glanced into what appeared to be a guest room, evidenced by an utter lack of personal touches. I closed the door and kept going. Knowing such houses as I did, I found it safe to assume the master’s and mistress’s bedrooms would be found closest to the main landing, which I could see ahead of me. Directly opposite the stairs was usually a sitting room, often with the owners’ bedrooms to either side. I deduced that Miss Imogene’s room was one of these here in the corridor.
When I peeked into the room lined in pale green silk accented by lovely white woodwork, I inhaled a floral scent and knew I had found the room I’d been looking for. A bed, with a tall, carved headboard whose center had been upholstered in the same green silk as the walls, dominated the room. I moved past it, searching for insight into the young woman who spent her time here. The room’s decorations wouldn’t provide that insight, I knew, as the Schuylers were only leasing the house. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d opened drawers and peered into cupboards.
And yet, a quick search uncovered no diaries hidden beneath frilly underthings, no photographs tucked away inside well-worn volumes of favorite books. In fact, there were no books at all in the room, not even on the bedside table. The wardrobe revealed an exquisite array of dresses and ball gowns, but nothing secreted behind them.
I went into the adjoining bathroom, where the drawers of a dressing table practically burst with all the usual beauty products—scented soaps and bath salts, facial creams and powders, tinted lip salves and other subtle cosmetics. All were of the finest quality, as were her perfumes, brushes, and combs. I went back into the bedroom, stood at its center, and glanced around me.
The word temporary came to mind. Imogene treated this room as the very temporary dwelling i
t had been meant to be. In my experience, however, it was a rare young woman who didn’t bring reminders of home on her travels. My impression became one of an utterly unsentimental individual, one with few or no bonds with either her past or her present. A woman who simply existed, who stood back, indifferent and untouched by the world around her.
Could that be true? I had witnessed her temper, her indignant anger at her fiancé’s supposed shenanigans with the actress. Had Imogene merely seen him speaking with her, and decided to use the opportunity to escape a marriage she never wanted? Or had she discovered an ongoing relationship between Jerome and the actress, or multiple women? Whatever Jerome’s actions, they had certainly affected Imogene Schuyler.
A second possibility occurred to me: Imogene had taken pains to conceal her true self from whoever might enter this room. Perhaps she merely had her parents in mind, or perhaps she had sought to protect herself from prying eyes outside the family. Why? What did she have to hide? Or was I reading more into it, and her room’s lack of individuality only revealed a woman who believed in traveling light?
Based on the array of toiletries in her dressing table and the number of dresses in her wardrobe, I doubted that very much. I’d also come to doubt Miss Powell’s claim that her young mistress confided in her about most things. The very nature of this bedroom led me to suspect Imogene Schuyler confided precious little to anyone.
With a sigh, I let myself out of the room. When I perhaps should have retreated downstairs, I went forward, instead, toward the main upper landing.
Upon finding the room that obviously belonged to the lady of the house, I stole inside. The curtains had been closed, and swaths of black fabric draped the mirrors above the mantel, mounted on the dressing table, and the full-length mirror beside it. The rest of the room was in perfect order, much like her daughter’s. The bed had been expertly made, the dressers and tabletops cleared of clutter. However, unlike her daughter’s room, there were photographs in gilt frames, several books lying on tabletops, and in the pigeonholes of an elegant, gilded writing table, I found both incoming and outgoing correspondence.
Murder at Wakehurst Page 11