At the time, she had merely thought that marriage was more complicated than she had suspected, and that she would adjust to it in time. It was only now that her husband was no longer present to explain to her how she should act and what her opinions should be that she understood fully the suffocating nature of his behaviour. It was as if she had been labouring upwards on a fog-shrouded mountain, and now, suddenly, the fog had lifted and she could see clearly again. She could breathe the sweet, clean air, untainted by her husband’s protectiveness.
No… she must not attempt to justify his treatment of her as protection. He had been oppressive and domineering, and if their marriage had continued, she would in time have come to hate him. She had already begun to fear him, bending her wishes to his and even, sometimes, her principles. She had surrendered to his demands because that was what a wife did, a dutiful, obedient wife — arranging her life around her husband and never, ever questioning his judgement. Only now that he was gone could she see how constraining that had been. It had felt like a prison, and now, unexpectedly, she was free. She rejoiced in her freedom, even as she grieved for her husband and the loss of the joyful marriage she had so longed for.
They all moved through to the tapestry room together, Adam taking a glass of port with him. Annie found her work basket and settled with a handkerchief to hem, mindless occupation for her hands while she listened to Judith and Adam chattering away. They had given up all pretence of trying to uncover a murderer, and were ranging over all manner of topics, in the way of old friends. As they sat side by side on a sofa, Judith gesturing with her hands to make a point, her face animated, and Adam gently teasing her, she wondered for the first time if perhaps they were more than friends. The idea struck her forcibly, for had not Judith said she could not leave Willow Place because she had nowhere else to go, or at least not yet? Perhaps there would indeed be somewhere for her to go in a few months’ time, when she would be out of mourning for her husband. She would go to Wickstead Manor, as Mrs Adam Huntly, and what could be more fitting?
The prospect gave her a burst of pleasure, but also a twinge of envy, for Judith would have the happy marriage that Annie had been denied. Would she be happy? Or was Adam like Rupert, a man who was to all outward appearances a devoted and loving husband, yet inwardly might be quite different? Or perhaps all marriages were so, placidly happy on the surface but jaggedly discontented within.
For the first time, she looked at Adam as a potential husband for Judith. Handsome, yes, and good-humoured, certainly. He enlivened every gathering, and even the gloomy peacock chamber seemed somehow brighter when he was in it. But he was an unrepentant flirt, and she wondered how happy a wife could be when her husband directed his teasing attention towards every female he encountered.
And there was the small matter of murder to be considered. It was almost impossible to believe him capable of such an act, and yet someone had done so, and Adam had more reason than most since he stood to inherit Willow Place…
Except that Annie’s child might yet stand between him and the prize… and if he had killed Rupert to obtain it, would he hesitate to kill again? Her child, if it were a boy? Or perhaps he would not even wait to find out.
Perhaps Annie herself would be murdered next.
11: The Funeral
Annie must have made some sound, a little gasp, perhaps, because Adam looked up sharply, a joking remark dying on his lips. He jumped up at once and strode across the room. Sweeping her work basket aside, he sat down beside her.
“What is it?” he said, his tone gentle. “Are you unwell? Distressed? What has occurred to upset you? Tell me, so that I may set you at ease again.”
“You cannot!” she blurted.
He gazed at her, a little frown playing across his forehead, trying to puzzle out the meaning of her words. She dropped her eyes in guilt, entirely unable to look him openly in the face when she had just that moment been considering whether he might murder her.
“You fear me!” he said, half to himself. “That is what this is about. But why? Is it something Rupert said about me? But that cannot be, for you have been calm for some time now, yet you are in sudden alarm of me. Will you not tell me why? I thought we were friends.”
She looked up at him then. Were they friends? “I should very much like us to be friends,” she said slowly. “But…”
It was Judith who understood first. “Annie, you cannot think that Adam had anything to do with your husband’s death, surely?” she said sharply. “It is impossible! To murder his own cousin in that callous way? He is incapable of such an act!”
“Is he?” Annie said quietly. “All I know beyond any doubt is that I did not kill Rupert, and nor did you, since you were with me all afternoon. Of anyone else, I cannot be certain. Even Mrs Cumber could have slipped out of the house between visits to us in the butler’s room.”
“That is ridiculous!” Judith said. “You are as bad as Sir Leonard, hurling accusations about in this wild way.”
Adam’s face was serious. “No, Judith, we must face up to the unpalatable truth — none of us can ever be sure what wickedness lies in the heart of another. Perhaps the two of you schemed together to kill Rupert. Or perhaps I did it, for no one saw me after I left the Vestry. Oh… I have just realised!” He smiled suddenly, and it was as if the sun had emerged from behind a cloud. “I understand why you fear me, Annie, for if I killed Rupert, then I might kill you also. That is it, is it not?”
She hesitated, but there was little point in evasion. Amongst the three of them there must be honesty, for suspicion would drive a wedge between them and curdle their friendship before it had even begun. “I do not believe it,” she said, “but I can never be entirely sure.”
“Of course you cannot. But wait here a moment, and perhaps I can relieve your mind of some of its anxiety.”
He dashed out of the room. Annie was left with Judith’s disapproving looks.
“I do not accuse him,” Annie said quietly. “I accuse no one, for it seems to me that no one here truly had a reason to kill Rupert. In my own case, murder would be an excessive response to a marital disagreement. In your case, you would not truly have been obliged to go to the workhouse if Rupert had forced you to leave. You have friends to whom you might turn, like Adam, for instance.”
“Not Adam,” she said quickly. “He is a friend, it is true, and he would certainly offer me shelter at the Manor if I asked it, but he lives there alone so—”
“Your reputation,” Annie said.
“Exactly! There is not much left to me, beyond my three girls. I have neither fortune nor a home of my own, and my husband neglected me when he was alive and failed to provide for me when he died. At present I am a respectable widow, however, and it would grieve me deeply to lose the last vestiges of that respectability. If Adam were to take me in, I should be quite cast out of society, and he would feel obliged to marry me and that would not suit either of us.”
“Would it not?” Annie said. “I had supposed the two of you to be rather well suited, in fact, and wondered only this evening if you would make a match of it, in time. Forgive me — that was impertinent, to be speculating in that ill-bred way.”
Judith laughed. “No one could ever describe you as ill-bred, Annie. It is true that Adam and I get along well, but then I defy anyone to dislike him.”
“Rupert did,” Annie said, frowning. “His antipathy seemed excessive, but perhaps there was some boyhood history between them which rankled.”
“Oh no, he was jealous, that was all,” Judith said. “Adam is something of a flirt, and Rupert could not abide any man exerting his charm on you. It was about you, Annie.”
“Good Heavens! How foolish of him, for although I find Adam amusing, he is too frivolous a man for my taste.”
“Is he?” Judith tipped her head to one side as she gazed at Annie thoughtfully. “I have often thought that a little frivolity in your life would not go amiss. You are quite a serious person, and Rupert was even more so.�
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“We were a good match then,” Annie said, a little affronted.
“Perhaps, although if you and Adam should ever—”
It was as well that Adam came back into the room just then, for Annie was greatly disturbed by this train of thought, when her husband’s body still lay in his bedroom upstairs.
“Here we are,” Adam said, heaving a huge book onto a table. “It took me a while to find it in the dark. I had to light a whole candelabrum.”
“Whatever is it?” Judith said, jumping up to examine the book. “Oh. The family Bible. What are you about, Adam?”
“I am going to do my utmost to reassure Cousin Annie that I am not about to do her in, and no normal oath will do. So…” He knelt beside the table, resting one hand on the Bible, his eyes fixed on Annie’s. “I swear to you, Cousin, upon my honour and in the eyes of God, that I did not kill Rupert or harm him in any way or cause anyone else to harm him, nor did I wish him the least misfortune. As God is my witness, you have nothing at all to fear from me, neither for yourself nor for your child, and I will do everything within my power to keep you safe, now and always, and so I do swear. May God strike me down at once if I lie.” He jumped to his feet, and smiled at her eagerly. “There! Does that help at all?”
His enthusiasm was so infectious that she smiled too. “Thank you, Cousin. Since no thunderbolt has struck you down, I accept your assurances as the truth.”
He grinned. “Excellent! So we can be friends after all.”
“May I look at the Bible?” Annie said. “I always wanted to, so that I could know about the many relations Rupert had not told me about, but he always found some excuse and I never knew where he kept it. It was not on the shelves.”
“It was locked away in one of the lower cupboards,” Adam said. “By all means look at it. Has he added your name yet?”
“Yes, here it is.” She turned to the page recording births. “Here is Herbert’s birth, and Rupert’s, and—”
“What is it?” Adam said.
“Who is James Huntly?”
“I have never heard of him. What is he, a cousin? An uncle?”
“He is a brother, a younger brother to Herbert and Rupert.”
“A brother?” Adam said. “I cannot believe it.”
“It is true. The date of birth would make him eighteen now. Wait… perhaps he died.” She flipped the pages to check the records of deaths in the family. “No… he must be still alive. And… surely he would be the heir, not you, Adam.”
“That is… impossible,” he said. “Let me see.” He quickly scanned the pages. “That makes no sense. I have never heard him mentioned. Have you, Judith?”
She shook her head. “And where is he?”
“He must be found, for he is certainly the heir presumptive to Willow Place,” Adam said. “I shall write to Aunt Connell in Ireland to ask about him. She must surely know what became of her youngest son.”
“By all means write, but you should tell Sir Leonard of this discovery, too,” Judith said. “If this James is alive, he is another person with a possible reason to have wanted Rupert dead.”
~~~~~
When Adam had left and Judith had gone to her own room in the attics, Annie slowly made her way up the stairs. It was the third time she had retired to bed alone, the third night without her husband. It was no easier than the first. She had been married just two months, yet her husband had been such a large part of her life, accompanying her for almost every waking hour, and every sleeping hour, too, that she could barely comprehend his loss. Even when her father had died, she had not felt so bereft. Had Mama felt like this when Papa had died, as if half of herself were missing? Yet they had been married for thirty years, so such grief was understandable.
Was it grief that she felt? She had not shed a single tear for Rupert, and she was aware of a certain relief as well as loss, so perhaps it was no more than the shocking circumstances of his death, and the suddenness of it, that affected her.
As she came to the dark corridor that led to her bedroom, she became aware of a trickle of light seeping out from under the door to Rupert’s room. There were candles set around the bed where he lay, no doubt, and perhaps the servants kept watch over his body. She had not thought to ask.
On impulse, she stopped outside his room, turned the doorknob, pushed open the door. The room was in deep shadow, only two candles lit, one at the head of the bed and the other beside a chair near the door, where Mrs Cumber sat. She closed the book she had been reading, and rose to her feet.
“Have you come to say farewell?” she said softly.
Annie nodded, realising that was exactly what she was doing.
“I will wait outside,” Mrs Cumber said. She took her candle and left the room.
Annie moved towards the bed. She had never been in her husband’s room before, yet it was very familiar for it was almost an exact copy of hers. The same hangings around the bed, the same furniture, even the same carpet on the floor. The black crepe draped everywhere did not disguise the similarities. Had Judith’s husband arranged the two rooms thus, or was it Rupert’s wish? Yet he had never slept in this bed. Every night he had shared Annie’s bed. They had never been separated. Until now. ‘Till death us do part…’ So they had sworn, and so it was.
Her husband lay motionless on the bed, shrouded in black. In the flickering light of the candles he looked almost as she remembered him, as if he might open his mouth and speak to her at any moment. Only the pennies on his eyelids betrayed the truth.
She set her candle carefully on the small table beside the bed, pulled across a chair and sat down next to her husband.
“Goodbye, Rupert,” she said, surprised to find that her voice was firm and strong. “Thank you for marrying me, for loving me enough to remember me for all those years. Thank you for the compliment. I am sorry you will never see your first child, but if it is a boy, I shall name him after you and tell him about his father. I shall tell him that you were a good man… at heart, and that you wanted to protect me from harm… from the world. But I do wish you had trusted me, my dear. I wish you had allowed me some freedom, so that I might have had my own friends and interests, and you yours. Then I could have learnt to love you, as a wife ought. I am sorry we quarrelled and that our last moments together were spent in anger. I am sorry you died, and especially in this wicked, brutal way. With Sir Leonard’s diligence, I am optimistic that your killer will be brought to justice in this world, as he certainly will be in the next. Goodbye, my dear. Go now to your eternal rest, and leave your earthly cares behind you at last. May God bless you.”
Closing her eyes, she made a brief prayer for his soul. Then she rose, took her candle and left her husband’s room. She had shed not one tear for him.
~~~~~
The carpenter and his brother came not long after dawn to coffin the body, then later a steady stream of carriages. Adam was the first, then Sir Leonard and Squire Thornton, Mr Grey and several men that Annie did not know. They milled about in the great hall, speaking in low voices until the coffin was brought down.
Annie and Judith stood beside the fireplace to see the funeral procession depart, veiled and black-gowned. Janet, Margaret and Isobel stood beside them, also in black, their small faces bewildered. The servants filed out from the service corridor to see their master depart. The coffin was lifted, the men fell into procession behind, they made their way out of the door, slowly and in silence. When the last straggler had gone, Mrs Cumber pushed the great wooden doors shut with a soft thud. Outside could be heard the stamping of horses and the closing of carriage doors. Then the rumble of wheels over gravel. Inside was silence. Only when the last sounds of the funeral procession had receded into the distance did the servants file back to the kitchen wing. The nursemaid took the children away. Only Annie and Judith remained.
Annie pushed back her veil. “Well, that is that.”
Judith gave a soft laugh. “It is indeed. Are you not going to cry, Annie?”
/> She thought about that. “I believe not, but this must be the most dreadful ordeal for you. This is the second time in a year you have witnessed a funeral departure here.”
“I was no more distraught in February than you are today. I had little affection for my husband latterly, Annie, I regret to say. Had it not been for my financial position, his death would have been a welcome release for me. Once Rupert assured me that I might stay on here, I was quite at ease about my widowhood. I was sorry for Herbert’s death, of course. It is always a tragedy when a man dies untimely. He was not a bad man nor even a bad husband, or at least no worse than any other. I never discovered that he had any great vices, he kept no mistress, left no debts and did not even ill-treat his horses. He was not affectionate towards me, even in our most private moments, but at least he did not suffocate me with his love, as Rupert did with you. I should not have suffered such treatment so quietly as you did, I assure you.”
“A husband must be obeyed,” Annie said slowly. “However unreasonable his requests, a wife must be obedient and dutiful. Should I have begun our marriage in defiance and argument? I could not! It was always my hope that time would mellow him, and he would relax his care of me somewhat. Surely he would have done?”
“Who can say? Perhaps you are right,” Judith said, but she sounded dubious.
Annie spent the day in the hunting room, writing letters and preparing mourning gifts for the servants. As there was as yet no will to be read, Adam had arranged for refreshments to be served after the funeral at the inn in the village to save the mourners the journey back to Willow Place, so no visitors disturbed her solitude. Apart from giving her orders for dinner, and arranging with Judith which rooms she would like to use in future, she never left the room. Even her hour of music practice, so precious an escape from her husband when he was alive, seemed less appealing now, even if she had felt like playing on the day of her husband’s funeral. Judith offered to sit with her, but Annie preferred to be alone.
The Apothecary (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3) Page 11