Rules of Attraction

by Christina Dodd

  “I’d be delighted to help you.” Mrs. Trenchard smiled, obviously gratified by Hannah’s deference. “Do you want me to stay and pour?”

  “You’re busy, dear Judy.” Aunt Spring hugged the housekeeper’s shoulders. “We’ll serve ourselves, and you can return to your duties. I know how busy you are on laundry day!”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Spring.” Mrs. Trenchard stood stiffly under Aunt Spring’s embrace, yet she lingered, watching with apparent enjoyment as the aunts recommended first one cake, then another, to Hannah.

  Miss Minnie poured the tea, and it was perfect: warm, richly amber, fragrant. The food was delicious, certainly worthy to serve the Queen…Hannah pulled herself up short. But it was madness to imagine Queen Victoria coming to shabby Raeburn Castle, especially for some bauble made by four eccentric old ladies. What had been Dougald’s plan?

  She sipped her tea. “When can I see what you’ve made the Queen?”

  The aunts exchanged glances, then put down their cups.

  “Now, if you like,” Aunt Spring said.

  Mrs. Trenchard was forgotten as they urged Hannah toward the long, purple-draped wall. The housekeeper cleaned up the tea, glancing toward Hannah and the aunts in a manner half-longing, half-relieved, and completely guilty. Then she wheeled the cart out of the door.

  Aunt Ethel and Aunt Isabel each grasped a pull on the curtain and stood, quivering, waiting for instruction.

  “Are you ready, Miss Setterington?” Aunt Spring asked.

  Ready for what? Hannah nodded.

  “Show her,” Miss Minnie commanded.

  Aunt Ethel and Aunt Isabel pulled the curtains back, dragging the heavy material along the rod, revealing a tapestry.

  And not just any tapestry. A huge, magnificently conceived, ornately woven tapestry representing Her Majesty Queen Victoria dressed in her coronation robes, with Prince Albert at her side.

  Hannah stared in awe, and when she collected herself enough to shut her mouth, she stared again. The work stretched fully ten feet tall and sixteen feet across, filling the wall, filling the eyes with artistry. This wasn’t the Bayeux Tapestry, with its course of war and conquest. This was a tribute, a modern gift done with the forgotten skill of a past age. These ladies, these enfeebled, hard-of-hearing and neglected elderly, had accomplished their feat with four looms and their considerable talent.

  Hannah stood in veneration of their skill and virtuosity.

  The enfeebled, hard-of-hearing and neglected elderly were almost dancing with impatience.

  “Tell us what you think,” Aunt Isabel demanded.

  “The detail…the creative precision…” The representation of Queen Victoria actually looked like Queen Victoria, and if Albert suffered from one cheek being higher than the other, no one would fault the originators of this endeavor. “It’s splendid.” Hannah spoke to Aunt Isabel, making sure she did not mumble.

  “I told you it was good!” Aunt Isabel announced triumphantly.

  “How long have you been working on it?” Hannah asked.

  “Since her birth in 1819,” Aunt Ethel told her.

  “Twenty-four years…” And Hannah was amazed they had finished it in so short a time. “Her Majesty truly ought to—” she bit off her words. Queen Victoria truly ought to see this, but without Dougald’s permission she dared not issue an invitation. “It is simply breathtaking.”

  “Look at the background. We used different symbols to indicate her sovereignty.” Aunt Spring swept her hand wide to indicate the greater background. “Isabel placed the moon and the sun, and suggested the sprinkling of stars to indicate the Queen’s majesty.”

  “The royal blue makes a most stunning framework.” Hannah stepped back, amazed at the amount of labor and thought the aunts had put into the tapestry.

  Aunt Ethel pointed to an open jewel chest. “Aunt Spring suggested the gems to represent the wealth of the nation.”

  “The colors are extraordinary.” Hannah moved closer to admire them.

  “Ethel suggested the roses—red and white to imply the sweep of British history, pink for Her Majesty’s eternal youth, and the thorns…see the thorns?”—Miss Minnie indicated the brambles that coiled across the bottom of the montage—“to show that England defends her own and can never be conquered.”

  “So wise. So thoughtful.” Hannah couldn’t take her gaze from the harmonious tapestry, resplendent with symbolism and grandeur. “Who designed it?”

  “Minnie did, dear. She did the sketches and when we had agreed on them, we divided them into panels. Each of us had two panels to weave. Then we matched them up and sewed them together…” Aunt Spring clasped her hands in excitement. “We did it all ourselves. We didn’t let the sewing maids touch it. We wanted it to be our own tribute to Queen Victoria. So you like it?”

  “Marvelous.” Hannah was running out of adjectives, and the tapestry deserved them all.

  “Is it worthy of Her Majesty?” Miss Minnie asked.

  Hannah drew her breath, but she couldn’t equivocate. “She would be honored to receive such a gift.”

  “So you will invite her to Raeburn Castle?” Aunt Ethel’s blue eyes shone.

  What could she say? How could she answer? Stalling for time, hoping for inspiration, Hannah said, “As you can imagine, Her Majesty’s schedule is set up months in advance. After I write her, it could be months, even—”

  “Are you telling us she won’t come?” Miss Minnie asked.

  Trust Miss Minnie to recognize Hannah’s dubiety and address it bluntly. Scrutinizing the tapestry again, Hannah was transfixed by Queen Victoria’s direct, all-seeing gaze. Hannah couldn’t lie to the aunts, nor could she give them anything but her best effort. They wanted this so much. They deserved to show the Queen their homage, just as the Queen deserved to see the results of their devotion. “You do understand, I cannot promise you anything. She may never come.”

  “We know. She’s the Queen of England. But if we didn’t ask her, she would never even know,” Aunt Spring explained.

  “What’s the worst Her Majesty can do? Send her regrets?” Miss Minnie’s hands trembled, and she sank into a chair. “We must try, or our endeavor is for naught. Anticipation, after all, is all that’s been keeping us alive.”

  Seeing the parchment white of Miss Minnie’s complexion, and the way the others rushed to pat her back and wave smelling salts under her nose, Hannah believed her. In fact, unless the Queen came soon, Miss Minnie might not be there to see their triumph. “Courtesy demands that I speak with Lord Raeburn before I issue the invitation.” And speak she would, most forcefully.

  “That is satisfactory.” Miss Minnie pushed the smelling salts away. “So you think we’d have time to fix Albert’s face? I’m quite accomplished with the sketch pad, but not so much so with the loom, and I’m still not satisfied with his uneven features.”

  “I agree, his features could be more symmetrical.” Remembering Queen Victoria’s devotion to her consort, Hannah added, “I assure you, there is time to reweave him.”

  “Good.” Miss Minnie pointed at the tapestry. “Get the footmen in here to take it down. We’ll take it apart and go to work immediately.”

  13

  Charles shut the door of Dougald’s Spartan office with his usual concern for his master’s delicate sensibilities, but Dougald saw immediately that his faithful valet was disturbed. Disturbed, and Dougald knew why.

  Hannah had arrived outside his door.

  He paused, his quill hovering over the book of estate accounts. “Yes, Charles?”

  “My lord, Madame is wishing to speak with you…again.”

  “Is she?” An unusual urge grew in Dougald. The urge to smile. He had been thwarting Hannah’s wish for private conversation for almost a fortnight. He enjoyed it, and probably far too much, but he forgave himself the unrestrained emotion. Ignoring Hannah seemed such a small retaliation for so many years of worry and disrepute.

  “She begs to speak to you, my lord.” Charles imbued a
great deal of Gallic histrionics in his plea.

  Histrionics would do no good. “Begs?” Dougald snorted. “I doubt that.”

  “Perhaps that is not quite the term she used, but she sincerely wishes a moment of your time to ask a question.”

  Dougald didn’t need to talk to Hannah to know what she wanted. She wanted to know about her family, or perhaps what he intended to do about their marriage. Neither of which he intended to tell her right now. She would know the answer to both those questions when he decided she would know, no sooner. “Tell her to go away. I don’t have time to deal with a mere companion to my aunt.” Once more, he lowered his head to the long column of numbers. Figuring the income and output of the Raeburn estate had proved to be a challenge, especially when so many different lords had had the keeping of the books these last few years.

  Charles sighed. Charles did not approve of his master’s torment of his estranged wife, although Dougald didn’t understand why. After all, Charles had considered Hannah a dreadful nuisance and an unworthy wife, and he had been proud of his part in routing her from Dougald’s life. He had interfered in their marriage. Then he had bragged to Dougald that he had rescued him from a wretched union. Bragged, when nothing was more wretched than the loneliness and apprehension that followed.

  Dougald still felt a trickle of shame that he had allowed himself to be so misled. He had allowed his own pride and ignorance, and Charles’s opinions, to destroy his marriage.

  Shame, Dougald had discovered, only made him more ruthless in his handling of Hannah. “Charles!”

  Charles brightened, if the slight lightening of his melancholy expression could be so labeled. “My lord?”

  “Did you find out anything about the deaths of the last two lords?”

  Charles’s face fell back into its usual sagging lines. “Oui, my lord, I did, but I thought to discuss it with you when I had your full attention. Right now, Madame—”

  “She can wait.” Dougald wiped off his quill and placed it on the blotter. “Come. Sit down. Tell me if my suspicions are correct.”

  Unhappily, Charles glanced at the door. “But Madame is waiting. I should tell her—”

  “Miss Setterington”—Dougald emphasized the lesser title—“is nothing but an employee. She may wait upon my indulgence for as long as it pleases me. Sit down and tell me the results of your investigation.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Ten years ago Charles would have been offended by Dougald’s tone of voice, and he would have shown it. Now he obeyed with alacrity, knowing himself to be on eternal probation. He sat in the straight-backed chair and faced Dougald across the desk, an aging Frenchman dedicated to the well-being of Dougald’s family. Folding his hands fussily in his lap, he said, “I first came to Raeburn Castle five years ago while, on your orders, I searched for Madame’s…Miss Setterington’s family. There was talk in the district then of the deaths of the noble young sons—definitely an accident, my lord, unless the killer somehow managed to cause a storm at sea.”

  Dougald nodded. He had heard enough to be satisfied with that explanation.

  “I heard that the old lord was dying—again, the natural advance of age rather than any human cause—and I naturally knew of your connection to the title—”

  Dougald steadily regarded Charles. “I had scarcely heard of it at that time. How did you?”

  “Your father—”

  “Of course. My father.” Charles didn’t need to say another word. Dougald well remembered his father’s avaricious pursuit of nobility, respectability and wealth. All in the name of the Pippard family. Everything for the continued glory of the line. And he had made himself like his father.

  Dougald’s eyes closed for a moment, and he thought of Hannah outside his door, sitting, or pacing, or cursing him. She would be the mother of his child, the carrier of the Pippards’ continued glory. He hoped she appreciated the honor done her, for he would make sure that she got damned little gratification from her position as wife to the lord.

  Charles said, “I came back periodically—”

  “Why?”

  “I found myself fond of the area, and in those days when you so kindly granted me a holiday, I returned here.”

  Dougald stared at him. It wasn’t true, of course. Charles never went on holiday without purpose. He had been returning to Lancashire to check on the title, hoping against hope that fate would favor his lord. As indeed it had.

  Charles dropped his gaze away from Dougald’s, and in a rapid voice, said, “If what I have discovered is true, my lord, then I must agree that the two previous lords were killed by some deliberate means.”

  “Pushed down the stairs. Helped off the cliff…” If Dougald didn’t know better, he would say Charles had been behind those crimes. After all, Charles saw nothing wrong with serving the Pippard family in any way he could, and he might imagine inheriting the title would soften Dougald’s displeasure with him. But Charles wouldn’t have had Dougald shot, if for no reason other than the fact that his own fortunes would fall with his master’s.

  Dougald looked down at his fingers. One joint on his thumb was still slightly swollen, and it pained him to bend it. Cracked, he supposed, or the joint was jammed. He sported a fading bruise from cheekbone to forehead, and he liked to keep his ankle elevated. He’d never been beaten so badly, and if not for his street-fighting experience he wouldn’t have escaped. As it was, he’d left two men unconscious and another with a broken arm. He had hurried back to Raeburn Castle as quickly as possible, hoping to send someone back for them. But only crazy Alfred had been awake and he refused to let Dougald in. The stupid drunk had kept shouting about the family curse and how the ghost had returned until Mrs. Trenchard had been roused by the clamor. She, of course, had set things right, rendered first aid, sent for Charles and dispatched men to search for Dougald’s assailants. The attackers were gone, and no trace of them was found in the district.

  Damn. Damn! If Dougald had just one of them, he’d find out who was behind this nefarious plot and he’d be swinging by a noose before the year was out. “Who do you think is doing this?”

  Charles ducked his head. “I am a miserable failure, my lord, not worthy to wipe your shoes.”

  “Yes, yes, but you’re the most intelligent agent I have working for me.”

  “But I was not able to find the assailant on either of the previous lords, or on you.”

  “Seaton,” Dougald pronounced. “That squirrelly fop is the only one who has cause.”

  Charles’s mouth twisted one way, then another—he was thinking of how not to offend. “With all due respect, my lord, for your superior intellect and vast experience in judging your countrymen—I don’t think Sir Onslow has the stomach for it, my lord.”

  Dougald offended Charles on a regular basis, but in this case he was almost tactful. “That’s why he hires thugs to do his dirty work. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “Gossipmongering does not a murderer make.”

  Dougald eyed his valet. “What are you getting at?”

  “You know about the falseness of assuming murder. You have been trapped in that injustice yourself.” Charles sat forward, his hands clasped. “Think, my lord, how obviously Sir Onslow relishes the tales surrounding your supposed crimes. Think how obviously he courts Madame, even though you immediately made your interest clear.”

  Yes, on that first morning Dougald had been blatant in placing his claim on Hannah. He shouldn’t have, but with the pain, he hadn’t been himself. “Since then, I have kept my distance.”

  “Causing even more talk, my lord.” Pressing his lips together, Charles flung up his hand to stop any of Dougald’s protests. “But no, that is not the point. The point is, if you were killed, Sir Onslow would be the prime, indeed the only, suspect.”

  “Because he’s the heir to the title and fortune.”

  “Because he spreads slanderous gossip about you. Any man who had killed the previous two lords would show more stealth in his handling o
f you.”

  Dougald leaned back in his chair. Charles had made his point. To have pursued a goal with such single-minded determination, Seaton would have had to scheme and plot for years—and for what? To allow his greed and dislike to sabotage him so close to his goal? Of course it was possible, but…“Why do you care so much whether I suspect Seaton?”

  “Because, my lord, if you are wrong—the person who wishes you dead is still undetected.”

  “Yes…” Dougald caressed a still-tender bruise on his forehead.

  “At least entertain some doubt. You have Sir Onslow under surveillance.” Charles knew his master, so it wasn’t an inquiry.

  “Yes.” Dougald had not thought to rehire the three detectives who had watched Hannah so soon, but he had sent for them. They had arrived. They followed Seaton, visiting where he visited, blending in with their dark coats and their gentlemanly demeanor. They were damned expensive, but Dougald couldn’t depend on anyone at Raeburn Castle. Not anyone.

  “I do not know who the culprit is, but I will continue to watch for him, and watch your back.” As was his wont, Charles struck a pose, fist on his chest. “You are safe, my lord, as long as Charles is with you.”

  In the current circumstances, a little posturing was admissible. “Thank you, Charles.”

  “Now, my lord, may I invite Miss Setterington to join you?”

  Posturing, but not manipulating. “No.” Dougald picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell.

  “But Miss Setterington has been waiting—”

  Dougald pointed the pen at Charles. “I don’t want to hear you say another word about Miss Setterington.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Not a word.” Dougald returned to work.

  * * *

  Outside of Dougald’s study, Hannah sat knees together, hands folded, mouth pursed, her exasperation swelling to unmanageable proportions. What was wrong with Dougald? She needed to talk to him about one thing. She needed his permission to invite Queen Victoria to Raeburn Castle. That would take approximately a minute, but she had not been given a minute. It was not appropriate to ask at dinner. Every day for a fortnight, she had traipsed down from the aunts’ workroom, through the corridor, through the great hall, through the chapel, and to the dim, windowless anteroom outside Dougald’s office. And every day she found Charles surrounded by candles, sitting at his desk, looking like the devil incarnate with his thin, white, wispily erect hair and his big, black, tormented eyes. She would state her desire to speak with Dougald. He would go into Dougald’s office and shut the door. And he would be back almost immediately with the report that Dougald was too busy to see her.