A Murder in Time (32 page)

“You shall need a new wardrobe, of course.” She lifted the teacup and saucer and handed them to Kendra. “I have taken the liberty of sending for the local modiste, but Mary shall begin by taking your measurements.”

They were sitting at a small table positioned in front of a window in Lady Rebecca's bedroom, a generously appointed space with ivory silk walls, rich mahogany furnishings, and an enormous velvet canopied bed done in the colors of ancient amber. It suited her, Kendra thought as she glanced at the other woman. Despite her disfiguring scars, Lady Rebecca presented a quaint, old-fashioned picture, pouring tea from the dainty porcelain pot, wearing her high-waisted, blue-sprigged muslin gown with her auburn hair swept into a charming topknot.

“What exactly does a companion do?”

Rebecca smiled. “You don't have paid companions in America? How very primitive.”

So are chamber pots
, Kendra thought. “Primitive is a relative term.”

“Indeed. Well, a Lady usually hires a companion to see to her needs. Fetching one's shawl or fan. Providing amusing company. Don't fret, Miss Donovan. We both know that I didn't offer you this position so you could entertain me. As you are no longer a servant, you will be allowed to attend the evening festivities. It will give you a chance to converse with people.” She paused. “Although I suggest you adopt a demure disposition tonight at dinner. Lady Atwood was
not
pleased with my unorthodox decision to elevate your status.”

“Did she give you a hard time?”

“She warned me that I'd be setting tongues to wag in the Polite World. As I care naught for the so-called Polite World, her argument fell flat. Lady Atwood's a bit high in the instep but she is a good woman. Thankfully, the Duke supports my decision.”

She set down her teacup and saucer and rose from the table. “I shall ring for Mary before Mrs. Griffith arrives.”

Rebecca's lady's maid was a small bird-like woman that Kendra recognized from her first breakfast in the upper staff dining room, before her demotion. She gave Kendra a look, sharp with distrust.

“Please take off your clothes,” Rebecca ordered Kendra.

“I'm usually offered dinner before that request.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind,” Kendra sighed, and began to strip. She couldn't hide her scars, and knew the instant the two women saw them. Rebecca gasped.

Suspicion flared in Mary's dark eyes. “Looks like ye've been shot, miss.”

“Yes,” Kendra said simply.

“How—never mind,” Rebecca said abruptly. “Forgive us. I understand all too well what it's like to be stared at.” She turned to Mary, who began unrolling her measuring tape. “What is the gossip below stairs, Mary?”

“Everyone's all aflutter at how ye hired the miss here to be yer companion.” The woman shot Kendra another narrow-eyed look as she looped the tape around her waist. “Miss Beckett says the countess was apoplectic.”

Rebecca waved her hand airily. “I am well aware of the countess' objections.”

“Are ye certain ye know what ye're about, milady?” Mary fitted the tape snugly beneath Kendra's armpits, intersecting across her bosom.

“The countess may wish me to Jericho, but I know what I am doing.”

“This is about the gel in the lake, ain't it? Talk is
she
be mixed up in that business, too.”

“I didn't ask to be here,” Kendra muttered beneath her breath.

“Why'd ye come, then?”

Why, indeed? “I'm still working that one out.”

“Hush, Mary. Miss Donovan is not the enemy.”

“They think she's queer in the attic. Hold still, miss.” She knelt down, measuring from waist to hem. “They may give ye the cut for supporting the likes of her, milady.”

“They wouldn't dare. Not with the Duke of Aldridge lending his support. At least not a
direct
cut. You'll need slippers, Miss Donovan. You can hardly wear those dreadful boots to dinner. And, oh, we really must do something with your hair. Mary, suggestions?”

“Why ever did ye cut it so short?” Mary gave Kendra an accusatory look.

“Some ladies have cut their hair . . . but this style
is
rather unusual, Miss Donovan.” Rebecca circled Kendra, tapping her chin critically. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“Maybe I'll start a new trend.”

Mary sniffed. “Not bloody likely.”

“I'm not so certain,” Rebecca said. “It is odd, but rather becoming. Still, we shall have to be creative, Mary. Miss Donovan is an Original.”

“What exactly is an Original?” Kendra asked.

“Someone who is unique, one-of-a-kind. You most certainly are that. Mary, we must make the most of it.”

The maid muttered, “We're doomed.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes, but before she could respond to that dire prediction, Mrs. Griffith, the local modiste, arrived. She wasn't alone. She was accompanied by two young women and five large trunks, which the footmen brought in. As Kendra watched in amazement, Rebecca's bedroom was transformed into a dressmaking atelier. The five trunks sprung open to reveal countless bolts of fabric, trimmings, and fashion plates.

This was, Kendra thought with a sinking heart, way before the time of ready-to-wear, before women could buy an entire wardrobe in about twenty minutes at Macy's or Walmart, or, better yet, order it online. Here, it was painfully obvious to Kendra that each item would have to be individually designed, cut, and stitched by hand.
How long will this take?

Rebecca performed introductions. “We shall need morning dresses, walking dresses, underclothes, and several evening gowns,” she explained. “I would like most of it done and delivered in a week. Is
that
possible?”

“Certainly, your Ladyship.”

“We shall need you to alter one of my evening gowns for this evening. Mary has Miss Donovan's measurements. And I must insist on a gown or two to be delivered tomorrow. An afternoon dress and an evening gown. Is that possible?”

Mrs. Griffon hesitated only briefly. Then she nodded. “Yes. We must begin work immediately, your Ladyship.”

It was funny what could bring on a panic attack, Kendra thought fifteen minutes later. Silks and satins shouldn't do it. But as the women scurried around the room, pulling out the bolts of material, Kendra had the choking sensation of being trapped. In that instant, she saw her future stretched out before her in paisley and pinstripes; in the cottons, wools, and muslins used in walking and afternoon dresses, and the lighter-than-air organza, silks, and heavier velvets to be cut into evening gowns; in the endless array of styles and silhouettes that would take her months—
years
—to wear.

Rebecca handed her a silk robe, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “Put this on, Miss Donovan. While Mary and Mrs. Griffon become organized, we shall sit down and drink our tea and I will explain to you what you ought to expect this evening.”

Kendra tried to shake off the strange, panicky feeling squeezing her chest. “I don't suppose you have something stronger than tea?”

25

“You have no appetite, Miss Donovan?”

Kendra pulled her gaze from the steaming bowl in front of her to glance at the man seated on her left: Mr. Harris, the local vicar. Although, he didn't look like a man of the cloth. Early thirties and attractive, he wore the same sort of uniform—cravat, shirt, waistcoat, topcoat, and pantaloons—as most of the other men at the table. He also carried himself with the same air of self-importance.

“Monsieur Anton's turtle soup is nonpareil.”

She glanced at the chunks of meat poking out of the creamy base. “I prefer my turtles in an aquarium.”

He gave her an odd look. “What, pray tell, is an aquarium?”

They don't have aquariums?
She reached for her glass of wine, taking a hasty swallow. “It's sort of a zoo, for aquatic animals and plants . . . never mind.”

The evening was turning out to be more nerve-wracking than she'd anticipated. The countess had put her as far away from the Duke and Lady Rebecca as she could, while still having Kendra in the same room. She was at the end of the long, elegant table, wedged between the arrogant vicar and Major Edwards, who was eighty if he was a day. The best thing about the old military man was he didn't seem inclined to conversation, content to slurp away the evening with his soup.

The seating arrangements could've been a retaliation of sorts, but Kendra suspected it was more a matter of rank, the Duke being the highest ranking person and she being the lowest. It was, Kendra realized with a flash of humor, a mirror image of how the dining room for the upper staff operated.

She knew she was under scrutiny from the rest of the guests. The women had eyed her carefully. Rebecca had been right about them not wishing to risk the Duke's displeasure by ignoring her completely—which, she was told, was the cut-direct. Instead, this treatment, Rebecca told her, was the cut-indirect—acknowledgment
before
being ignored. Georgina and Sarah had observed her with astonishment, retreating behind their fans to whisper.

The men had viewed her change in status with more amusement. At least, she thought she saw amusement in their eyes. More often their gaze was directed lower, since the rose gown that Mrs. Griffith had altered for her showed off her cleavage in abundance.

“You have turtle zoos in America?” That came from the woman on the other side of Harris. Kendra glanced over at her. It was difficult to believe that the insipid blonde was the vicar's wife. Despite the bright canary yellow striped gown she wore, she appeared to want to shrink into herself. Except for introductions, this was the first sentence Kendra had heard her utter all evening.

“Don't be ridiculous, Mrs. Harris.” Her husband's lips thinned. “Miss Donovan is obviously telling us a Banbury tale.”

His wife gave him a nervous look, flushing miserably.

Kendra picked up her wineglass and twirled it thoughtfully. “Actually, the Sumerians raised fish simply for decoration in artificial ponds more than four thousand years ago. The ancient Romans also stocked their own ponds for entertainment purposes. Sort of a fish zoo.” She smiled. “The way I look at it, if you can have fish zoos, there's no reason you can't have turtle zoos.”

Harris's eyes narrowed. “How utterly . . . eccentric.”

She'd say this for her nineteenth-century counterparts: they were polite even when they were accusing you of being full of crap.

“Turtle zoos!” Next to her, Major Edwards seemed to rouse himself. “That would be a devilishly odd undertaking.”

“Miss Donovan is having sport with us, I think,” Harris said coldly.

“I say. Why would she do that?”

“I am not certain. American humor, mayhap?” The vicar gave a small shrug, turning back to his soup as though he couldn't be bothered to figure it out.

Kendra surveyed him. Harris hadn't been on the list of suspects that the Duke had come up with.

“Have you always lived in the area, Mr. Harris?”

“No. The Duke graciously appointed me to the vicarage here five years ago.” He put down his spoon and arched a brow. “And you, Miss Donovan? You are new to the castle, are you not? I haven't seen you in the village.”

“I haven't been here very long.” She paused while the footmen cleared the table of the first course.

Harding brought forth a fresh bottle of wine, which the Duke inspected. Once approved, several bottles of the same vintage were uncorked, and new glasses were filled in anticipation of the second course—stuffed lobster shells.

“You've been very fortunate, haven't you?” Harris murmured, sliding her a look.

“That depends on whether you're a glass half empty or half full kind of person.” She picked up the slim, two-tined lobster fork to sample the delicacy.

Harris frowned. “I do not comprehend.”

She reached for the new wineglass. “You've no doubt heard about the young girl who was killed and found in the lake.”

Mrs. Harris fingered the ruffle at her throat. “The gossip is that she was savagely murdered. Dear heaven.” She shivered, glancing at her husband. “I thought we were well away from that sort of thing, Mr. Harris.”

Kendra eyed her. “You've been involved in a murder before?”

“Don't be preposterous.” Harris's mouth tightened. “My wife and I lived in London for a brief time. Dreadful, dangerous place. A maid-of-all-work who lived down the street from where we had rooms was killed by a footpad. Not an uncommon thing to happen.”

“Aye. Terrible place, London,” the Major muttered into his wineglass. “Rife with cutthroats and rogues.”

“We were ever so grateful for his Duke's patronage to escape the lowbrow atmosphere of Sutton Street,” Mrs. Harris agreed, darting an uncertain glance at her husband.

“The dinner table is not the place to discuss such a subject,” Harris said abruptly, giving Kendra a reproving look. The Voice of Authority.

Kendra toyed with her wineglass. Early nineteenth-century London had no official police force, and she was reasonably certain that the crime rate was pretty high. It wouldn't be unheard of to encounter a homicide if you lived there, as the Harrises had done. It could be a coincidence. But she'd never been a big fan of coincidences.

Catching the vicar's eye, she smiled. And she thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to get word to the Bow Street Runner to check out the lowbrow atmosphere of Sutton Street.

Kendra was still turning that over in her mind an hour and a half—and ten courses—later, as she followed the glittering parade of women to the drawing room, while the men lingered with their port at the table. Rebecca approached, carrying two small glasses filled with Madeira. Kendra eyed the dark amber liquid in the cut crystal.
Jesus.
These people knew how to
drink.
She'd probably sampled at least a half dozen different wines at dinner, meant to complement each course. She felt a little buzzed, but no one else seemed affected.