I emerged at last at the top of the tor, shrouded from the folk below by the trees. Above me stretched a wide sky of dark blue, the evening stars just twinkling to life. A low moon sat atop a hill, round and rosy as a pink pearl. A single torch flickered in the evening breeze, lighting the way as I unwound the garland of flowers and draped it over the well. I stepped back to admire my handiwork.
“Careful, you nearly trod on my toe,” said a sharp voice.
I whirled round to see Bess, the maid who had saved Crab. I gave a gusty sigh. “Finally. Charlotte King. I thought you would never declare yourself.”
CHAPTER FIVE
What love can do, that dares love attempt.
—Romeo and Juliet, II.ii.67
Charlotte blinked twice then yanked off her cap, taking with it the dull wig of mouse-brown hair. “Thank God. That filthy thing makes my head itch.”
“I can well imagine,” I told her.
“When did you realise it was me?”
There seemed little point in withholding the truth. “In the bath this afternoon. I was thinking of how brave you were with poor old Crab, and it occurred to me how curious it was—that habit of ducking your head when you were spoken to. And that wig was so horrid, I could not believe anyone would be so unfortunate as to have such awful hair.”
She laughed. “It is a fright. Fair killed my vanity to wear it,” she added, shaking out her own long, corn-gold hair. It shimmered like so much silk in the torchlight.
“Really, with no better disguise that that dreadful wig, I cannot believe I was the only one to know you for who you are.”
She smiled. “I also darkened my brows with soot and changed my posture. You would be amazed what a difference it makes.”
By way of demonstration, she altered her stance, and suddenly, instead of a tall, slender young woman of impeccable carriage, she was a diffident creature three inches shorter and painfully shy.
“Astonishing,” I murmured. “I must remember that.”
She shrugged. “One of the first things you learn in the theatre, my lady. There is nothing so telling as how a woman holds herself. A few simple alterations in posture and appearance and I am a thoroughly different person. And of course, no one really pays attention to maids, do they? I learned that on my first job. Lady Cobham’s rubies,” she said, her expression slightly dreamy. “She never once suspected the new chambermaid and I ended up with the most spectacular necklace—” she broke off her reverie and nodded towards the white robe. “You ought to get that off so long as we are making ourselves comfortable.”
“I think not. It is ceremonial, you know.”
She produced a tiny pistol from her pocket. “I insist. I’d rather folk not be able to track you as we make our way down the tor. That white robe will show for miles in the darkness.”
Her own gown was of the plain dark stuff the maids wore for proper work, and underneath my robe I had a dress of dark green silk. Without the robe, the pair of us blended beautifully into the shadows.
“What do you mean to do with me?” I asked, continuing to make polite conversation.
She shook her head. “Not here, my lady. I mean to be well away in a short while, but not with you taking up my time with more idle chatter. There is a path down the back side of the tor, steeper than the one you just came up, but nicely dark and leading straight to the Abbey gardens. Now, be quick about it, and, mind you, don’t do anything foolish. I am not entirely certain I could kill you with this little thing, but I am not unwilling to try.”
I did as she bade me, walking in front of her to the head of the path and descending steadily. I did not dare ask her further questions while we were on the tor; the descent was treacherous down the darkened path on the steep side and with every stony footfall I cursed the fact that I was not wearing breeches and boots. My flimsy slippers were cut to ribbons on the crude path, but we reached the gardens, slipping through the gate that led into the maze. Charlotte stepped close, pressing the little pistol into my side.
I gave myself a brisk little shake and concentrated on the maze. “I have not been in here in ages, but let’s see—this gate is close to the statue of the March hare. He ought to be just along here, hello!” We turned around a leafy corner to find an enormous hare rampant, his stony eyes staring unseeingly at us in the dim moonlight.
“Rather menacing in the dark, don’t you think?” I asked. She did not answer. “Now, three turns left, then one right, and left again will take us to the centre.” I navigated swiftly to the far gate of the maze, holding it open for Charlotte to accompany me through.
She started towards the terrace of the Abbey, but I gave a sharp whistle, bringing her up short. “Are you daft? The terrace opens off the breakfast room. Aquinas will be in there making certain things are laid properly for tomorrow morning. This way. There is a door in the stillroom.”
I led the way, pausing only to retrieve a rusty key from under a flowerpot next to the stillroom door. I let her in and closed the door gently behind us. “I will leave it unlocked. You can go the way we came when you make your departure.”
She stared at me, her eyes glittering. “You cannot seriously mean to help me.”
“Of course I can. Stay here.”
I made to leave, but she stepped sharply in front of me. I gave another sigh. “Charlotte. I have had ample opportunity to betray you and I have not done it yet. Trust me another ten minutes and you will have what you came for.”
She shook her head. “They told me the Marches were barking mad. That is what the villagers said when I told them I was taking a job as housemaid here. I did not believe them.”
“You were our guest in December,” I reminded her. “You ought to have discovered it for yourself then.”
“I suppose I ought,” she agreed with some reluctance.
I gave her a quick nod. “Now, I will return in a moment. Stay here and whatever you do, do not light a lamp. Aquinas will come to investigate and I do not wish to explain you.”
I peeked out of the stillroom and down the long corridor of the offices to make certain the wing was deserted. I darted out and up the great staircase to my room, emerging a few minutes later to retrace my steps.
I found Charlotte just as I had left her, save that she had opened a pot of raspberry jam and was eating it with her finger, her pistol abandoned on the cabinet. She was distracted enough that I could pocket it with little fanfare.
“Heavens, Charlotte. You are not a savage.” I handed her a spoon. “I am afraid I cannot risk going to the kitchens to find food for you, and even if I did, the larder is no doubt bare after the fire—the fire I presume you set.”
She had the grace to look abashed. “I regret that. But there was no other way. I had to be alone in the Abbey to search Maurice, but this place is like Victoria Station! And do you know they lock the maids in at night?” she asked darkly. “It’s mediaeval.”
“A reasonable precaution with the Duke of Aberdour in the house,” I pointed out. “Shall we begin at the beginning?”
She shrugged, dipping her spoon into the jam. “I’ve no doubt Brisbane told you I was released.”
“Yes, he did. However did you manage it?”
She smiled, and for an instant I saw a ghost of the insouciant girl she had once been. “I have a rather good barrister. The Yard’s case collapsed against me in light of their total absence of proof.”
“How was the proof lacking?” I demanded. “I found the Tear of Jaipur for them!”
The jewel, a diamond of tremendous value and beauty, had carried with it the potential for tremendous scandal.
“Yes,” she said smoothly, “and the person from whom it was purloined declined to see the matter through. She was happy enough to have it back.”
“I imagine she was,” I muttered. The lady in questi
on—one of Queen Victoria’s daughters-in-law—had unwisely shared the diamond, along with her favours, giving them both to a man who was neither discreet nor kind, a man who happened to be Charlotte’s husband and partner in crime, Edwin King. “You ought to have left the country,” I told her. “But I suppose you will not go without him.”
At the mention of her beloved, she flinched. She had told me a good deal during our last conversation. I had gleaned he was unprincipled, cruel and handsome. For all her cleverness and daring, she was well and truly ensnared by him, and I pitied her that. I was just as enthralled by a man, but I had had the good luck to choose wisely.
“And I knew you would never go without the Grey Pearls,” I told her. “You challenged me to find them after you stole them from my room, and I did. Poor old Maurice. Did you really have to slash him to bits just to try to find them?”
She swore lavishly. “I thought they might have slipped down into the stuffing. I very nearly dismantled the whole bloody thing to find them. And I still cannot quite believe you got to them first.” Her tone was one of grudging admiration, and I felt compelled to tell her the truth.
“I didn’t. My nephew Tarquin found them when he was playing at being a pirate.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Well, you’ve all had your fun with them. It’s time to hand them over now and I will be on my way.”
“I cannot. I am afraid they are gone.”
She perked up, fairly quivering with rage. “Gone? Tell me the truth!” Charlotte reached behind her toward the now-empty spot where she’d left her weapon. “That was my only leverage!” she said, forcing the words out through her teeth.
I rolled my eyes. “You never had any. And that is the truth…I gave them away.”
“Gave them away?” she spluttered.
“To a Gypsy woman who no doubt broke them up and sold them one pearl at a time in order to avoid unwanted attention.”
Charlotte slumped over the table, dropping her head to her hands. “Those pearls were a perfectly matched parure that once belonged to Catherine the Great. The Romanov imperial eagle clasp had ruby eyes. Have you any notion what they were worth?”
“They were mine, remember? But they carried no fond memories. I was happy to be rid of them. I paid a debt in giving them away.”
“You owed a Gypsy money?” she asked, her voice incredulous as she lifted her head.
“Not that sort of debt. You are welcome to search my things if you do not believe me, but it will only be a waste of time.”
She shrugged. “I believe you. No one else would be daft enough to give away a fortune in pearls.”
I ignored the implied insult. “If we are going to get you out of here, we’d best hurry this along. Heavens, Charlotte, you must stop gaping like that. You look like a carp.”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “I feel as if I’ve tumbled down the rabbit hole.”
“Yes, the Marches tend to have that effect on people. I am terribly sorry I have taken the reins of this abduction, but you really managed it quite poorly, you know. Had you even thought about how you would get away?”
“Of course,” she countered, indignant. “I shall take the milk train and be in London by morning.”
I rolled my eyes. “Cut across the fields behind the church. At the crossroads, take the turning for Maddersfield. From there, take the train to Southampton. Once in Southampton, you will board the Vesper. It weighs anchor tomorrow night, sailing for Cherbourg. And from there you can go anywhere in the world.”
“What on earth makes you think I will do anything of the sort?” she demanded.
“Because I have already purchased your ticket,” I told her. “It will be waiting for you at the steamship office.” I held out a small packet. “There is a telegram confirming your ticket. I hope you will forgive me for not reserving a first-class cabin, but I thought your lack of wardrobe might occasion some discussion as would your travelling without a maid. And it might be rather fun to mingle with the others in steerage. I hear it is quite matey.”
“Fun? You are absolutely barking. What possible inducement could there be to my taking this offer?”
“Freedom,” I said softly. “There is nothing to hold you here. There is a letter of introduction in that packet as well—addressed to my bank in New York. I have wired them instructions to place five thousand pounds in an account for you.”
She opened her mouth, but closed it slowly, shaking her head. “There must be a catch, a string somewhere.”
“Yes, there is. The passage is for one person. And the account is in your name with the funds to be claimed in person only. Leave Edwin behind and start your life anew. Without him.”
To my astonishment, angry tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away with the back of her hand. “You are a bitch, Julia Grey.”
“Charlotte, I thought we could at least be civil about this. Edwin is a vile man, and you have been in thrall to him for far too long. Take this chance to start over again.”
She slumped against the table, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. “You don’t know how many times I have thought about it, what a relief it would be just to leave him, leave it all behind. But I wouldn’t know how.”
“Of course you would. Begin with this. A ticket to a new life and money to start it with. You can be anything you like in America, or so I hear. You do a tremendously convincing aristocratic accent when you like,” I offered. “And you are extremely resourceful as jewel thieves go. I have no doubt you could make something of yourself if you only tried.”
She hesitated, put out her hand towards the packet I held, then drew it back with a moan. “How could I leave him? He will not be released for another ten years at least. I have to be here for him when he gets out. He will never make it if I leave him.”
“Edwin King is the sort of man who will always survive if there is someone stronger than he is for him to lean upon.”
She blinked furiously. “What a fool you are. He is stronger than I am, you know.”
“I do not know it. Why did he persuade you to sully your hands with his foul business if he was so capable? He would have done it all himself and spared you that. But he didn’t. He needed you, Charlotte. All this time you thought you needed him, but it is the other way ‘round. Edwin King is a weakling, a millstone ’round your neck. How long will you carry him?”
She said nothing. She merely stared at me for the longest moment. I made to take the packet back, but at the last moment she lunged for it, darting out of the door as swiftly and silently as a phantom. At the edge of the maze she paused a moment and turned back. She might have lifted her hand in farewell. The moon went behind a cloud just then, and I lost sight of her. When it glided out again, silvering the garden with its lambent light, she was gone.
I followed, taking the longer way to the village and emerging onto the green to find the place in utter pandemonium. A search was being organised, and someone was holding the filthy white gown I had worn at the top of the tor up to Crab’s nose.
“Heavens, poor Crab has the worst nose of any mastiff in Britain. Surely you cannot expect him to find me,” I said loudly. The crowd stilled for a moment, and the only sound was the crackling of torches and Crab’s soft sigh as he settled back onto his haunches.
Then the chaos broke out, everyone shouting at once, and Brisbane crushing me to him with a fervour that was both delightful and slightly painful.
“Careful, dearest,” I murmured. “You shall break a rib if you squeeze any harder.”
“I might break one just for sport,” he returned with a growl. “What do you mean haring off into the dark alone without so much as a by your leave?”
I shrugged. “I thought the back path might be quicker but I got tangled up with a bramble. I’ve only just now got free.”
Brisbane g
ave me a searching look. “Interesting that for a woman who spent the last hour wrestling a bramble, you’ve not a single tear in your gown or scratch upon your hands.” He turned my hands over to inspect the palms. “And not a thorn to be found, my lady.”
His expression was serious, and I raised myself on tiptoe to kiss him. “A lady must have her secrets, Brisbane. Trust me when I tell you this one does not touch you.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped it with my own.
“Call it a wedding present,” I suggested.
“Very well,” he said at last. “At least life with you will never be dull.”
“Of that you can be certain, my love,” I promised him.
CHAPTER SIX
Render me worthy of this noble wife.
—Julius Caesar, II. i.303
Is there any finer phrase in the English language than Midsummer Day? There are no words to touch it for conjuring. It is the beginning of blooming roses and ripening corn, of days that stretch on, reaching for midnight until the spangled blue velvet of night descends and beginning again before cockcrow, when the dew jewels the grass like diamonds scattered while the earth slumbers.
I, of course, expected rain. Not just rain, but torrential, heaving, biblical rain—the sort to set arks afloat. Everything else had gone awry, why not that? But when I awoke on Midsummer Day, the sun greeted me cordially, coaxing the dew from the grass and the early roses as a light breeze wafted the scent of charred chimney over the gardens. I stood at the window and breathed in deeply all the scents of summer, fresh grass and carp ponds and blossoming herb knots until the whole of it mingled in my head and made me dizzy. A bee floated lazily in the window and out again as if beckoning me to follow.
No sooner had he gone than Portia arrived, announcing that Olivia had abdicated all responsibility for the wedding, pleading a migraine, and that no wedding breakfast had been arranged. I shrugged and towed her to the window. “What could it matter on such a day? There is nothing so magical as Midsummer Day in England and I will quarrel with no one today.”
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