by Eliza Casey
The bicycle wobbled under her, making her stomach clench, but all her old dance lessons stood her in good stead, and she was able to find her balance. As she rode along the lane, she remembered how Mrs. Price had talked about the delicious freedom of cycling. Mrs. Price was very right. The speed of it, the wind catching at her hat, the exhilaration of being on her own, was wonderful.
Thinking about all that had happened with poor Mrs. Price quite chased troublesome thoughts of marriage conundrums out of Cecilia’s mind, and she considered everything that had happened in the last few days. The London gossip, the strange séance, the inquest that solved nothing. Cycling did seem to stimulate thoughts as well as legs.
A couple of cars and a horse and cart went by, the occupants waving at her, but other than that the lane was empty. She turned onto a narrow trail, lined on either side by tall hedgerows that blocked the wind. She felt closed around by a green, silent world, fragrant with autumn leaves.
As Cecilia rounded a sharp corner, narrowly avoiding toppling into the hedges, she thought she heard something on the other side of the greenery. A loud crack, a rustle. She shrugged it off and rode along, yet it seemed to move with her. When she stopped, it vanished.
“How very odd,” she muttered, trying not to think of the footsteps and shaking table of the séance. She set the bicycle into motion again, trying to find her old rhythm. She rode faster and faster, coasting around corners—until she hit an unexpected fallen log in the lane.
Cecilia shrieked as she toppled over the handlebars, her hat slipping over her eyes and blinding her. Her stomach lurched with a cold terror. She landed with a hard thump but managed to roll free before the bicycle fell on her.
She heard running footsteps, just beyond where the hedges dipped past the lane. She shoved her hat back from her eyes and pushed herself up to twist around and study the path behind her.
“Hello?” she shouted. She heard another sharp rustling noise. “Is someone there?”
No one answered. The lane seemed empty. Cecilia carefully eased herself to her feet, wincing at the bruised ache in her shoulder and hip. The sleeve of her jacket was torn, which was sure to vex Jane, and her hat was quite beyond hope. She limped over to study the tree trunk she had crashed into and realized it didn’t look as if it had just fallen there. There were drag marks in the dirt, and they seemed quite fresh. Had someone placed the trunk there where she was sure to topple over it? Was someone following her this whole time?
She heard the hum of a motor on the main road, and she ran through a stile to find Collins driving the Danby car. Relieved, she waved frantically at him, and the car sputtered to a halt.
“Lady Cecilia!” Collins cried as he flung open his door. “Whatever has happened? Are you hurt?”
“I was practicing cycling, and I fear I took a tumble,” she said. “I must say, I was riding along quite well until I fell over a tree trunk. I’m glad you came by. I don’t think I could walk all the way back to Danby.”
“Let me drive you back right away.”
“Thank you.” Cecilia studied the lane, which seemed quiet now. “Did you happen to see anyone else, Collins?”
“I thought I saw a car driving away in the distance, but I couldn’t make out what sort it was. Did you see anyone, my lady? Anyone who shouldn’t be there?”
“Not really. Once I turned onto the side pathway, I saw no one at all. But I did think I heard something . . .”
“What sort of thing?”
Cecilia shrugged, feeling a bit foolish. All that had happened lately in Danby Village, her usually tranquil home, had obviously spooked her. “Just a rustling, maybe footsteps. On the other side of the hedge. It seemed to be following me for a while.”
Collins went to where she indicated, to examine the hedges and the tree trunk she had toppled over. He came back in a few moments, his face taut with worry. He tossed her bicycle into the boot of the car. “We should get back to Danby now, my lady.”
Cecilia was alarmed all over again. Collins was usually completely unflappable and good-humored. “Why, Collins? Whatever is the matter?”
“There were indeed footprints, my lady, in the mud on the other side of the hedges. And that tree trunk was cut deliberately and dragged onto the path.”
“I see. My goodness.” Cecilia hurried into the car, locking the door carefully behind her. Why on earth would someone want to hurt her?
* * *
“There now, my lady, I have a nice, fresh, hot-water bottle for you,” Jane said, helping Cecilia into her turned-down bed. “How are you feeling now after your bath?”
“Just a little sore, Jane, but I do think your lavender bath salts worked wonders,” Cecilia said, sighing as she leaned back on her soft pillows. “No need to fuss.”
“Of course there should be a fuss! Mr. Collins said someone put that tree trunk there deliberately to make you take a fall. Who would do such a thing?”
Cecilia had been asking herself that very thing, over and over again. She knew she had to organize her thoughts. She found her notebook and a pencil on the bedside table and started to make a list.
“I do fear Mrs. Price, though famous and important, was not universally liked by everyone close to her, Jane,” she said with a sigh.
“No. But it seems Lord Elphin must have loved her a great deal once,” Jane said, perching on the edge of the bed. Jack jumped up into her lap.
“Indeed, decades ago. Did it lead them into trouble now? Has he carried anger toward her this long? He and his men were such bullies at the rally.”
“And he wanted his ring back. Was that how Georgie Guff got it? Stealing it for Lord Elphin?”
“Mr. Perkins says Guff was in the snug at the Crown that night, but Daisy says it was busy then and Guff could have slipped away. Or maybe he took the ring sometime earlier? Did Lord Elphin send him, as you say, or was he acting on his own? He was obviously engaged in some sort of stealing spree.”
“Could Guff have really been the man Mr. Talbot saw walking away?”
“But he was in the pub that night.”
“Mr. Winter was seen at the pub, too. Mrs. Winter said she slept deeply that night, after they left Primrose Cottage, and Anne said she thought she heard their car leave long before Mrs. Price fell. Did he return after Mary fell asleep?”
“Certainly there doesn’t seem much love lost between Mrs. Price and the Winters. Though Mary says they were trying to reconcile.”
“Hoping she would help Mr. Winter in his career again?”
“Very possibly, though I don’t see how she could have, except by giving up her work, which she never would. Mr. Winter seems to blame his in-laws for his stalled career. Miss Smythe, though, said it was all his own incompetence.”
“Would he tell his wife the truth, though? Maybe Mrs. Winter blamed her mother, too.”
“And she would hate to see her comfortable life taken away, true.”
“Maybe that was why the Winters left Miss Black’s séance so fast. Mrs. Price might have told all.”
Cecilia laughed and winced as her shoulder gave a painful twinge, reminding her how serious this matter was. “Maybe it was Mrs. Price’s ghost who knocked me from the bicycle?”
“She might want it back.”
“Well, she can’t have it. Before I took such an embarrassing fall . . .”
“You were knocked down, my lady! You didn’t fall.”
Cecilia nodded. “I was quite enjoying it. Such a sense of freedom, riding down the lane! But what about Cora herself? She did confess, though not especially convincingly, and she had disagreements with Mrs. Price about the Union’s direction.”
“Mrs. Palmer also quarreled with Mrs. Price about the direction of the Union; you said Bridget even mentioned as much. And she was at Primrose Cottage for a time that night.”
“Maybe she wanted to take it over
entirely.”
“Suffrage does make people passionate. And if Anne, Cora, and Mrs. Palmer disagreed with Mrs. Price, there must have been others in the Union who did, too.”
Cecilia watched Jack as he calmly groomed his paw. “Perhaps it was an accident after all. Though then where is Mrs. Price’s sash? A robbery gone wrong, her family, Mrs. Palmer, illicit lovers. I wonder if it could have been Mary Winter?”
“Mrs. Winter?”
Cecilia nodded, thinking of the threatening letters. “She wants to be seen as helpless, fluttery, feminine. Annabel says having the vote will mean women will no longer be protected by men. If Mary thinks her mother’s ‘unnatural’ work is truly taking away her husband’s career, her very way of life, she might lash out. Yes—perhaps it was Mary. But I just don’t know.” Jack leaped from Jane’s lap onto the pillow next to Cecilia and batted at her pencil. “What do you think, Jack?”
But Jack just made a “mrow” and settled down for a sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
For an instant when Cecilia opened her eyes, she was caught up in the sticky remnants of dreams—flying through hedgerows as bicycles propelled themselves riderless through the sky, the nausea of fear as she tumbled downward to the hard ground. Then she opened her eyes, her breath tight in her lungs, and she remembered—it was the day of the bazaar, and no matter how sore she felt or how tired after such strange dreams, she couldn’t linger in bed.
She groaned and rolled over to pull the satin blankets over her head. The curtains hadn’t been drawn open yet, but she could see the golden glow of light between the folds of blue-and-white-striped silk. It would be fine weather, which would give her mother one less thing to fret about, but it meant plenty of work for Cecilia and everyone else at Danby. At least Mama would have no more time to lecture her about the dangers of bicycles.
She rolled back over to glance at the little ormolu clock on the mantel. Far past the hour she usually awoke. She glimpsed the lists she and Jane had worked on, suspects and nefarious motives, and the sunny autumn day seemed to lose some of its bright luster. Someone who had killed, who had followed Cecilia herself along that lane, was still out there. What if their work, whatever it was, was still undone?
The door slid open, and Jane tiptoed in with the tea tray in her hands and Jack at her heels.
“It’s all right, Jane, I’m awake,” Cecilia said, pushing herself up against the pillows. Her shoulder gave a twinge where she had landed in her fall. “I couldn’t sleep very well with all the thoughts whirling in my head!”
“Me neither, my lady,” Jane said with a shudder. She put the tray down on the bedside table and opened the curtains to let the morning light flood across the floral needlepoint carpet. Jack jumped up on the bed to settle on the rumpled sheets and groom his paw.
Jane poured out the tea and arranged the ginger biscuits. “I kept imagining I heard something outside my window, which is impossible, isn’t it, it’s up so high? No one could get into Danby. But then again, no one should be able to sneak around and tear down tree trunks, either.”
“Do you have any other ideas about who might have killed Mrs. Price?” Cecilia took a long, fortifying sip of the blessedly strong tea. She didn’t like to think someone like Mary Winter, so downtrodden and bullied by her husband, could have done such a thing, but it did look as if she was the prime suspect.
Jane glanced at their lists. “Nothing new, my lady. Poor Mrs. Price. What a confused life she led!”
“Let’s just hope that, whoever they are, they don’t disrupt the bazaar. My mother would kill them, as well.”
Jane laughed. “That reminds me, my lady, Mr. Brown is expected for breakfast, and even Miss Clarke was downstairs early. I think Lady Avebury’s habit of making lists for everything has rubbed off on her. She’s very worried about the prizes for the baking competition.”
“Then I am sure she will make a fine Lady Avebury herself one day,” Cecilia said, and she wondered again what would happen to Annabel and Patrick. When would her brother come up to scratch?
“So, what do you want to wear? That new ecru muslin with the purple lace we brought from London? It’s so lovely, it would be a shame to waste it. It’s a bit breezy outside, but we can find a small hat to go with it and pin it on securely enough.”
“A small hat will be necessary, I think. Didn’t Annabel say she had a purple toque she could loan me? I’ll be pouring tea and trying to persuade people to buy hideous knit things in the bring-and-buy tent all day long. A big, fashionable hat would just get in the way.” She thought of Mr. Brown, and a future as a vicar’s wife, when whole days would be filled with such matters. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
She gulped down the last of the tea and glimpsed the flowers from Lord Eversham, that immense bouquet arranged in a crystal vase. What, then, would life be like as a marchioness? Surely, there would still be bring-and-buy stalls to be run. That seemed to be her fate wherever she turned.
As Jane laid out the new frock, which was indeed a beautiful creation of ecru muslin embroidered with tone-on-tone flowers and interspersed with panels of purple lace, with a matching purple bolero jacket, Cecilia ate the last of the biscuits and went to the window to study the activity out on the lawns. James and Paul, the footmen, were carrying trays of Mrs. Frazer’s tarts and cakes to the tea tent, while archery targets and croquet sets were set up for the games. She pushed open the window and took a deep breath of the autumn morning air, still warm but with a snap of chill to it that predicted cold mornings to come. She could smell sugar and the sweetness of flowers, and something green-lemony . . . almost like the smell on those letters at Primrose Cottage. Could the same person who wrote them really be the one who pushed her from her bicycle?
Jack jumped up onto the ledge beside her, his striped head held high as if he, too, was investigating.
There was a frantic knock at the door, and Cecilia’s mother called, “Cecilia, dear, are you quite ready? There is so much to be done! No time to be lounging in bed!”
Jane held up the purple-and-white skirt, and Cecilia sighed. “Coming, Mama.”
* * *
The annual church bazaar, along with the summer fete and the tenants’ Christmas party, was one of the few times of the year when the grounds of Danby Hall were open to the neighborhood, and it was always very popular. No sooner had the gates at the end of the winding drive been opened than the pathways and lawns were filled with people in their best clothes and hats, bright colors against the flowers, laughing and pointing out the statues, the fountains, the ornamental lake where rowing boats were ready to be hired out. The ancient medieval tower that rose at the end of the garden, so romantic looking.
As Cecilia hurried out of the house and down the terrace steps, pinning on the small purple toque hat trimmed with silk violets she had borrowed from Annabel, she waved and smiled at everyone she passed. She saw Cora sitting on a bench under the shade of a tree, Nellie hovering beside her as she tried to get Cora to drink some lemonade. Cora shook her head, but she did look a bit less pale, with a little smile on her face. Anne appeared to hand her a plate of cakes, and they all waved back at Cecilia.
Her mother and Annabel were hurrying along, the feathers of their hats waving, lists in their hands, luckily far too busy to notice that Cecilia was late, and her father was chatting with Lord Byswater as her grandmother settled herself in an armchair brought out especially for her by Redvers. Sebastian sat at her feet, growling at everyone. Even Inspector Hennesy and Sergeant Dunn were there, a spot of dark gray and navy blue among the reds and greens and purples.
“A lovely day for a game of lawn tennis, eh, my lady?” Jesse called, as he hurried past with a tray of lemon tarts. “I won a prize for it once before I left school. My stunning backhand, you see.”
Cecilia laughed. “I would be much too good and win all the prizes, I fear, and then you would have to cut me
off. I have a rather fine backhand myself.”
“A challenge, then! Care to put your money where your mouth is, my lady?”
“Cecilia!” her mother called. “No dawdling.”
Cecilia gave Jesse a cringe. “Later, perhaps. For now, duty calls. I think I’m meant to be selling tea cozies today.”
The Misses Moffat had already set up most of the refreshment tent, long tables laid out in lines and draped in pink and white, while two village girls, along with Daisy Perkins, manned the huge silver urns and passed out the tarts and cakes. Right next to them was the bring-and-buy tent. Cecilia sighed as she studied the array of objects laid out for sale very neatly, though that would all soon change once people began rummaging. There were indeed tea cozies, porcelain cups and plates hand-painted by the ladies from the village, scarves and hats and embroidered handkerchiefs, dolls and tops and hoops, and one especially odd teapot shaped like a porcupine. She was quite sure most of the items would make a return appearance next year. The bring-and-buy was more an obligation than a joy, but it did raise money for the church roof.
“Ah, Lady Cecilia,” Mr. Brown called to her. He excused himself with a dimpled smile from the three ladies he was talking to, or rather surrounded by, and they looked after him with disappointed moues. He really was a handsome man, Cecilia thought, with his curling dark hair and kind brown eyes, especially in his shirtsleeves. The church was sure to raise lots of money that day. “I was just repairing a table leg that fell off. What fine weather we have for the bazaar this year! I remember my predecessor complaining of the autumn when a rainstorm blew in and knocked all the pavilions quite to the ground, leaving everyone drenched.” To her disappointment, he put his coat back on.
She laughed at the memory of that particular bazaar, the tents swimming like galleons over the lawn while everyone shrieked and ran for the terrace. “Yes. It’s funny to think of it now, but it was quite dreadful when it happened. You do seem to have brought us good luck, Mr. Brown.”