by Amy Corwin
“Yes, Lenora. I do. And I’ll accompany you to Sir Horace’s, if you wish.” He gave one of her hands a squeeze.
She nodded and smiled. “I would like that. Thank you, Glanville. You are a good brother.” She laughed. “We make a pretty pair, do we not? Neither of us is likely to inspire love. In the end, I suppose we will both settle for a very businesslike arrangement of convenience.”
An unaccustomed emotion twinged inside him. For some reason, Miss Grace rose to mind. Not so much her pretty face, but the fact that she, too, was facing a marriage of convenience if her cousin could convince her to marry him. The thought didn’t sit well with Glanville. Such alliances may be the way of the world, but that didn’t mean he had to like them. Or look forward to his own eventual arrangement, whatever and whenever that would be.
Hopefully, a long time in the future, yet.
Chapter Ten
“Didn’t you think Mrs. Wolstenholme looked pale? Something must be worrying her terribly,” Grace said as she guided Martha toward Hornbeam Manor.
Apparently intent on following Lord Glanville and his sister to the village, Martha resisted for a moment, her gaze fixed on the pair of siblings.
When Grace didn’t release her, Martha shrugged and resigned herself to match her sister’s pace. “She is often pale. However, she does seem more distracted than usual.” Her mouth twisted. “Perhaps Mr. Wolstenholme has been spending their evenings reading improving passages to her again. She mentioned once before that she’d finally broken him of the habit, but he might have started once more.”
Both ladies stifled a giggle as the same thought crossed their minds. Marriage to the severely sanctimonious Mr. Wolstenholme wouldn’t be easy for anyone, even a woman as proper as Mrs. Wolstenholme, and it would only be worse if one had to sit and listen to lectures detailing one’s bad habits.
Grace thrust the thought away and glanced back over her shoulder. Mrs. Wolstenholme had already disappeared around the corner of the church, presumably headed for the vicarage.
“Perhaps I ought to visit her,” Grace said. “If she is truly worried about something, it may be a relief for her to unburden herself. Even if she simply wants to complain about morally uplifting lectures.”
“Did you forget? Tomorrow is the inquest. Wait at least until the day after. She may be attending, along with everyone else in the village.”
“Attending? Mrs. Wolstenholme?” Grace shook her head. “No. I doubt she will attend, though I’m sure the vicar will. She’ll have to wait for the news like the rest of the ladies.”
Martha agreed with a shrug, and they chatted in a desultory manner the rest of the way back to the manor. Both of them were too absorbed in their own thoughts to engage in any meaningful discussion, even if it only concerned the weather.
Time limped along the rest of the day. Trying not to think about the inquest or Mr. Blyth, Grace spent several hours playing with Flossie. She managed to teach her to sit, as well as the rudiments of good manners. The dog was exuberant and quick to learn, so much so that several times Grace wondered if Flossie would end up smarter than she was.
The day finally died in a spectacular display of salmon, crimson, and blue, and when even those ribbons of color faded, Grace tucked her needle into the seam of the lovely pale yellow silk gown Lady Branscombe had given to her. After a few alterations were completed to take in the waist and bring up the hem, the dress would fit Grace as if made for her. Her back and neck ached, however, and she rubbed her nape. All of the ladies had been working diligently on various sewing tasks, and Grace’s efforts were clearly shown in her pricked fingertips. She looked hopefully at her hostess.
Lady Branscombe caught her gaze and smiled. The plain, wooden clock on the mantle sonorously chimed eleven. They all stood with alacrity, thankful to bid each other good night and escape from their sewing.
Grace and Martha hurried to their separate rooms and closed their doors. Leaning against the door, Grace suspected her sister would probably get as little rest as she would. The inquest would be held tomorrow, and at the end of it, Grace could well be arrested for Mr. Blyth’s murder.
Even when she firmly refused to think about it, restlessness gripped her. Grace paced back and forth in her bedchamber, at one moment lighting the candle to obtain the comfort of the small yellow flame, and then blowing it out for fear that someone would see the light shining under her door and knock to see if anything was wrong.
The more she tried not to think about it, the more the inquest occupied her mind. The evidence against her was simply too strong, and no one else was suspected. Grace was sure to be bound over for trial. Mr. Blyth’s blood had streaked her dress and quite literally stained her hands, and it hadn’t been invisible like that over which Lady Macbeth had fretted.
Her heart fluttered. Lord Glanville had mentioned he’d entertained some doubts. That might bode well. If he’d discovered something that gave him pause, it had to be important. Whatever clue he’d found had been sufficient for him to set aside his loyalty to his sister and ignore his belief that Grace had returned to Kendle to break Mr. Blyth and Lady Lenora apart. If he told the jurors, surely they would be convinced of her innocence, as well. Or they might have enough doubt to encourage them to continue their investigation.
But could he convince them? Would he even try? What if he decided to say nothing?
Her thoughts went round and round, veering this way and that, lurching between hope and fear, as she moved from pools of candlelight to darkness and back. She paced her increasingly small bedchamber until the sky to the east grew a paler shade of blue over the jagged black shapes of distant trees.
Exhausted and limbs aching, she finally climbed into bed, her gaze fixed upon the gray window. Her shoulders burned with tension, but her eyelids fluttered nonetheless. Finally, a few minutes before dawn, she fell asleep.
The next morning proved to be just as tedious and yet anxiety-ridden as Grace expected. After breakfast, Lady Branscombe, Martha, and Grace gathered in the comfortable drawing room favored by Sir Horace and his wife. Once more, they sat down to a morning of letter writing and mending. Grace kept jabbing her fingertips with the needle until the skin was so torn that the delicate silk material kept catching on her roughened fingers.
“George says Caesar and Flossie may have sufficient manners to join us in the house in as little as a month,” Lady Branscombe murmured around a bit of thread. She moistened the thread and expertly drew it through the eye of a needle. “Will you not be pleased, Grace?”
“Oh, yes. I should love to have her in my room, if you don’t mind.”
Mrs. Branscombe laughed. “Not at all. I intend to allow Caesar the most frightful liberties. Among other things, he will most assuredly sleep at the foot of my bed to keep my feet warm. I am forever suffering from cold feet.”
Their conversation lapsed after this startling revelation. After one or two more attempts to find a topic interesting enough to make them forget what was happening in a back room at the King’s Arms, the ladies worked in near silence.
A light supper was served at two. There was no sign of Sir Horace, or any of the other men. Grace picked her piece of bread into small crumbs, and although she cut her chicken into pieces, only one small bite made it to her mouth.
What were they doing? The coroner’s only purpose was to decide the manner of death, not the guilt or innocence of any suspect. Surely it was obvious to everyone what the manner of death was. For one second, for one thrilling moment, she wondered if Dr. Meek had managed to convince them that Mr. Blyth had fallen, hit his head, and died by accident. It was difficult to see how that might occur, however, since the wound was on the left side of his head, and he had fallen face downward. He could have tried to get up, though, and failed… No. It was easier to hope that Mr. Blyth had felt nothing and had died immediately after a single blow to the head. Imagining that he’d tried to get to his feet and failed was too awful.
She shivered at the grisly image. Th
e needle pricked her index finger yet again, drawing a bead of blood. She sucked on it to avoid staining the linen shirt she was now mending for Sir Horace, having given up for now on the yellow silk.
It was well past eight when Sir Horace flung open the drawing room door and blew into the room. He went first to his wife and gave her shoulder a squeeze, then he glanced at Grace.
She studied him, trying to guess from his expression what the verdict had been. His gaze flickered over her face and then to the air above her head, while his hand remained on his wife’s slender shoulder. A slight V crimped his brows.
Grace’s heart sank, and her hands stilled in her lap.
If it had been good news, he would have been all smiles. He would have had no hesitation in meeting her glance.
Another, heavier tread sounded in the hallway. Lord Glanville, with Constable Gribble at his heels, followed Sir Horace into the room.
Sewing falling to the floor, Grace stood. Her hand pressed against her chest, her heart thudding wildly. They were going to arrest her. Here. Now! Her limbs shook to the point where she had to grip the back of her chair to steady herself.
Lord Glanville caught her gaze and held up a hand. He smiled reassuringly. “The verdict was unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.”
Limbs collapsing, Grace sat down with a thump in her chair. She let out a trembling breath.
“That may be so,” Constable Gribble said, stepping around Lord Glanville. “But we must insist that you remain here, Miss Grace Stainton, while we undertake a proper investigation into the matter.” His broad chest puffed out like a pouter pigeon as he stared at her with gimlet eyes. All trace of his customary good humor was gone.
Sir Horace hurriedly stepped between the constable and Grace. “Of course, you will stay here, my dear. There can be no question about that. We are very pleased to have you as our guest.” He reached over and gave his wife’s shoulder a little jiggle.
Lady Branscombe sighed. A long-suffering expression crossed her face before she caught Grace’s gaze. To her surprise, Lady Branscombe winked and smiled. “Of course, you will stay here, Miss Grace. No need to dwell on it. That should have been understood.” She glanced up at her husband. “By everyone.”
Sir Horace cleared his throat and gripped his lapels, giving them a tug. “Yes. Well.” He glanced at the constable and frowned. “No need to remain, young man.”
The constable gave Sir Horace a startled glance. Mr. Gribble was at least a decade older than the magistrate and clearly hadn’t been called a young man for a very long time.
“Yes, sir.” He flung a final warning look at Grace before bowing and taking his leave.
Sir Horace rubbed his hands together, grinning with relief. “Well, that’s done, then. Good job. Everything is all right, now, is it not?”
His wife sighed in exasperation, folded her sewing, and got up to move to the bell pull. “I suppose you have not eaten.” She yanked the cord. When Rathbone appeared, she gave swift orders for a cold supper. “I hope you will stay and have supper with us, Lord Glanville. As you heard, it will only be cold meats, cheese, and bread, but we would enjoy your company.”
Glancing up, Grace caught Lord Glanville’s gaze fixed upon her. Amusement danced in his eyes, and a wry smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Grace flushed. She looked away hastily and expelled a long breath when Lord Glanville turned away to escort Lady Branscombe into the dining room.
Nerves—it was just nerves. She clasped her fluttering hands together at her waist as she entered the dining room behind Sir Horace and her sister. The inquest’s verdict had been a surprise—a very welcomed surprise—and the melting sensation in her limbs was simply relief. That certainly explained her shortness of breath, as well. Just that, and the fact that she had eaten virtually nothing all day.
As luck, or rather, Lady Branscombe, would have it, Grace found herself seated next to Lord Glanville. Once again, she found herself picking at her food. When her stomach growled in protest, she decided with staunch determination that she was going to have at least one decent meal today.
“I trust the verdict of unlawful killing did not distress you unduly, Miss Stainton,” Lord Glanville said.
He, at least, seemed to have no difficulties with his appetite. He managed to make a large slice of roast beef and several slices of bread disappear as if by magic.
“Murder is always distressing.” She cast a quick, sidelong glance at him. “Was there anything mentioned that was, um, unexpected?” She looked briefly at their hostess, fearing she’d be reprimanded for inappropriate dinner conversation.
However, Lady Branscombe appeared blissfully unaware of their quiet conversation and was laughing over a comment from Martha.
Lord Glanville’s brow furrowed, and he took a sip of wine. “Unexpected?”
“Oh, never mind,” Grace said. “Perhaps you could… Perhaps you could visit us tomorrow with the details? Constable Gribble—”
“Don’t worry about the good constable,” he interrupted gruffly. “And I would be delighted to answer any questions you may have. Why don’t we go for a walk? Tomorrow morning at ten?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Grace was so relieved that she managed to eat nearly as much as Lord Glanville, all the while extolling the virtues and intelligence of Flossie as a way of avoiding any more awkwardness.
Lord Glanville nodded politely at the appropriate times. Even if he’d never seen the dog in his life and therefore probably had very little interest in Flossie’s progress, at least his blue eyes never lost their amused twinkle.
True to his word, the very next day, Lord Glanville called on Grace at precisely ten in the morning. The day was fair and warm, with only a few puffy white clouds frisking through the translucent blue sky like lambs, and Grace impulsively asked George to bring her Flossie on a lead.
After all, she’d spent so much time describing the puppy last night, surely Lord Glanville would want to at least see the creature.
Flossie tumbled over her own large feet in a concerted effort to greet Lord Glanville when George brought the puppy to her. Laughing, Lord Glanville bent and rolled the puppy over with one large hand to gently rub the dog’s plump belly. The puppy’s pink tongue lolled ecstatically out of its mouth, and Flossie licked Lord Glanville’s hand whenever it was near enough.
When Lord Glanville straightened, the dog immediately sprang to its feet. Flossie then sat down primly, in a surprising show of both good manners and an excellent memory.
“I see you have trained her well.” Lord Glanville threaded Grace’s hand through the crook of his arm.
Grace laughed. “She deserves all the credit, not I.”
When the groom, George, hovered nearby, his eyes fixed anxiously on Flossie, Grace motioned to him to take charge of the dog again. Smiling with relief, George picked up the puppy, clearly having feared that the animal would misbehave in some unforgiveable way in front of Lord Glanville.
Grace almost laughed at the thought—she was quite sure that Lord Glanville would not have been upset, no matter how terribly the dog misbehaved. He was not that sort of man.
And while she would have preferred to take the puppy along for its first walk, she knew if she did so, she would spend so much time playing with the dog that she would forget to ask about the far more important matter of the inquest.
“Lord Glanville, what happened yesterday at the inquest? Did they see my gown? What did they say?”
“Yes, your gown was examined, but there was little they could say about it. Most of the stains were gone.”
“But that is good, is it not?”
“You forget your gloves, Miss Stainton. I’m afraid they were rather incriminating.” He glanced at her, his eyes kind.
Her spirits sank. “They think I am guilty, then.”
“Not necessarily. They were unsure and reluctant to assign guilt, particularly after hearing Mr. Cavell confirm your statement that you had just arrived from London. There is sti
ll some hope.”
They walked randomly before following a path that wended its way through Hornbeam Manor’s gardens. The gravel walkway soon turned into a narrow dirt track that passed through a small wicket gate and merged into another, rougher trail. If one followed the track over the gentle hill beyond, there were the remains of a ruined abbey, though they were barely more than a few crumbling walls three feet high and one lonely arch. Nonetheless, it was a picturesque and quiet spot, and it offered a measure of privacy while still being visible for an exceedingly long distance. There could be no accusation of impropriety if they went there, and yet she knew they would not be overheard.
She needed to know how dire her situation truly was. The sense that Lord Glanville was not telling her everything in an effort to spare her feelings—or avoid a hysterical scene—wouldn’t leave her alone.
To her surprise, however, they no sooner set foot on the track beyond the gate when Grace noticed another figure loping along on the intersecting path that led around the manor’s grounds to the village. A jacket flapped around the figure, and even at a distance, Grace recognized Mr. Dutton by his ground-eating, loose-limbed gait.
With a quick look up at Lord Glanville, Grace paused to wave. Their discussion would simply have to wait.
Mr. Dutton waved back. To Grace’s surprise, he abruptly changed his course to join them.
“Are you acquainted with Dutton?” Lord Glanville asked as Mr. Dutton approached them.
“Yes.” Grace smiled. “He is the one who gave me Flossie.”
“I see.” Lord Glanville’s gaze rested thoughtfully on Mr. Dutton.
“Have you met him, as well?”
“Not formally. He was at the inquest,” Lord Glanville added.
“Miss Stainton.” Mr. Dutton doffed his worn cap and clutched it between his hands.