Death of a Dowager (10 page)

Chapter 17

Lucy was waiting for me in the entry hall. When I arrived, she put Rags on the floor and turned to me with open arms. In her embrace, I felt the strength of our friendship.

“I am so sorry,” I started.

“Hush.” She put a finger to my lips. Although the red rims of her eyes affirmed that she’d spent time crying, her lovely dress of rose pink with white stripes did wonders to revive the cheerful bloom in her cheeks. “You have done nothing to warrant this. Ever since I learned about Evans, I have suffered from a vehemence of emotion that has overruled my sensibility. Last night, the slight you endured hit me hard. I felt helpless. But I know better. In the cool light of day, I have decided that this will not do—and Olivia Grainger supports me in this. While you were at the park with Ned, she and I exchanged a volley of notes. A street urchin made a nice fistful of coins today.”

“Good for him,” I said sincerely.

“Yes, and I think he brought me luck. I have news about Evans. His nanny Mrs. Wallander writes that she has received the funds I sent for their travel. Her daughter’s fever has finally broken, and the girl seems to be on the mend. Mrs. Wallander and Evans will be leaving Brussels this week. Can you believe it, Jane? Given the time it took for the letter to reach me, he could be here any day!”

“I am so glad for you,” I said, and although I am not as inclined to physical gestures as Lucy, I could not help myself—I hugged her. Hard. I knew Lucy had always wanted a child and that Evans was the answer to her prayers. As we separated, I added, “Have no fear. You will be a splendid mother. I know you will. So . . . we go to challenge the Ingrams?”

“No,” she said with a sweet smile. “We go to face them. Olivia had specifically counseled all of the Ingrams in advance that we would be attending the opera. The women had given Olivia their word to receive us politely. Naturally, she was furious with her sister-in-law and nieces’ behavior. My friend has told them in no unclear terms that they will treat both of us with civility.”

I still had no desire to mingle with them, but I understood that such a meeting would be important to Lucy, so I took her hand and we moved forward.

Once inside her carriage, I said, “Tell me more about your friend Lady Grainger.”

“As you will see, we are near neighbors, but that is not why or how we met. It happened when we were both in want of a dog. Her Mags is a sister to my little Rags. By happenstance, we arrived at the same time to look at the litter, and as a matter of course, it was easy to strike up a conversation.” Lucy drummed her fingers on the coach seat as she talked.

“And her interests?”

“She is a keen gardener. Not that she digs in the soil, but she stands over Benjamin, her young manservant, and directs him. Lady Grainger’s garden runs along the side of Bayswater, the length of that hedge.” To illustrate her point, Lucy parted the carriage curtains and pointed to a massive wall of boxwood bushes. “Lord Grainger installed that lych-gate at the back. I believe he thought it would provide easy access for wheelbarrows full of flowers. Soiled flowers.”

My face admitted my confusion until she clarified, “Women of low virtue.”

I absorbed this and reflected on how sad it was that for many families marriage is but a business transaction, a barter devoid of love.

“Perhaps if Olivia had given her husband a child, he might have felt more kindly toward her. Instead, he was happy for the wealth she brought him and the home she made. Otherwise, she was of little consequence to him.”

I knew that Lucy regretted not being able to give her husband a child. Was that why she and Augie lived apart? Had he thought of her as a disappointment? I hoped not, for her sake.

As the carriage pulled up to Lady Grainger’s front door, I closed my eyes and used the fragrances as a guide to imagine the riot of colors: the crimson red of roses, the light purple of lavender, the delicate pink of snapdragons.

“You and Olivia will find much common ground. She is well read and compassionate, an original thinker without prejudices. Her life revolves around her garden and Mags, who means the world to her. With no children of her own, she dotes on Mags. She’s a very, very spoiled pup.”

“And then there is you,” I said.

Lucy’s smile lit up her eyes. “Yes, I daresay I am closer to her heart than her Ingram nieces. She has told me as much.”

“Little wonder at that,” I murmured.

“Well said.” Lucy reached over and gave my fingers a squeeze, the warmth of her hands radiating through our kid gloves. “And the curtain rises.”

Chapter 18

Stanton, the Dowager Lady Grainger’s butler, a tall man with a widow’s peak and a Romanesque profile, met us at the door and escorted us upstairs to the drawing room. There the Ingrams sat in a row, like rooks on a fence, and every bit as cheerful. Our hostess wore a mobcap and a dark blue at-home dress that had seen better days. It occurred to me that Lady Grainger cared little for the trappings of society. Like Lucy, she did what she needs must to blend in and move among those of the ton, but she did not allow society to dictate to her. Nor did it provide the yardstick by which she measured others.

The Ingrams were dressed in the latest fashion, or so I judged their gowns to be, based on the fashion magazines Lucy and I had combed over when deciding what I should wear to the opera. Lady Ingram and her daughter Blanche were dressed in very similar “morning” dresses, both of an appealing shade of medium blue.

Although Lady Grainger seemed to ignore her wardrobe, her domestic touches told me that her home mattered to her a great deal. I took special note of our surroundings, a harmoniously appointed sitting room done in deep maroon with gold touches. The walnut étagère, low table, chairs, and occasional tables gleamed. On every surface sat lush ferns, each perfectly suited to its pot, with fresh shades of green that contrasted nicely with the stately dark furniture. In glazed pots along an east-facing window, exotic orchids burst into saucer-sized blossoms. The effect enchanted me. I had never seen an interior that combined the salutatory benefits of the natural world with that of the restrained dimensions of the man-made. Lucy’s home was lovely, but Lady Grainger’s revived my weary soul, making me realize she and I were really very much alike in our tastes.

Everyone stood to greet us. Lucy and Lady Grainger exchanged hugs and cheek kisses before presiding over my reintroduction to the Ingrams, who gave me the barest nods of acknowledgment but otherwise played their parts. This change of heart could have been attributed to the King’s accolades or Lady Grainger’s admonishment. I did not know which, nor did I care. Instead, I rejoiced that now Lucy would be free to continue her life as she had before—and that Evans would not suffer because his new mama had taken me for a friend.

Thus having achieved a sort of détente, we took our seats in a circular pattern while our hostess called her dog to her side. Into the room raced a small bundle of white fur, all wriggles and waggles. Mags licked her mistress, excited as she was lifted onto the woman’s lap. Taking into account the coloration, size, and personality, I could make no distinction between this dog and Lucy’s Rags. I watched Lady Grainger stroke the pup’s head methodically.

“Welcome to my home, Mrs. Rochester. Your husband visited earlier,” said Lady Grainger. “Squire Rochester was on the way to the club with Mr. Douglas when he stopped in to apologize to Blanche and her mother.”

“Did he indeed?” I said, thinking that perhaps the new acceptance I was enjoying could be the result of my husband’s having made amends.

“Or more correctly, he tried to. I believe Blanche and Silvana will now owe
him
an apology. Certainly Blanche does.” She cast a pointed look in the direction of the mother and daughter, who squirmed in their seats uncomfortably.

“Yes, Aunt,” said Blanche, in a tone of resignation.

“You see,” said Lady Grainger, “Blanche is a bit under the weather. She hasn’t been feeling well lately, so her temper must be excused. Isn’t that right, Blanche?”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“But you are better?” asked Lucy in a kind voice. “I hope?”

“Somewhat,” said Blanche. She enjoyed the attention, and she knew she needed to be polite, but she found it taxing to put aside her sense of injury. It had become familiar to her, and she relished it.

“And how are you, Miss Mary?” asked Lucy, politely.

“Fine.” Mary had changed her dress from her walk in the park.

“Your nose is a bit pink, dear,” said her aunt. “Are you coming down with a chill? I warned you not to walk outside without a wrap.”

“I am fine,” she repeated, sending a quick glance my way.

I decided to hold my tongue. I couldn’t blame her for not wishing to discuss the scene I’d witnessed earlier.

“How is Rags?” Lady Grainger asked Lucy, after she rang the bell for tea.

“Mischievous as always. He is enjoying our young visitor, the Rochesters’ son, Ned. No matter how fast his nursemaid acts, the boy always leaves a trail of crumbs for Rags. Speaking of sons, dearest Olivia, I’ve had wonderful news just this morning I wanted to share with you.”

Lucy summarized the letter that had recently arrived from Evans’s nanny.

“Evans?” Lady Ingram arched an eyebrow. “Is that the name of your husband’s bastard?”

Chapter 19

“Silvana! You promised!” Lady Grainger shook a finger at her sister-in-law, but the scolding was interrupted by a loud rapping at the front door. We paused as we heard it open.

Stanton fairly bounded up the stairs, carrying in his hand a silver plate, bearing a thick ivory card. The Lady Grainger picked it up and started searching for her quizzing glass. Stanton came to her rescue. “The Marchioness Conyngham wants to know if you are at home, Lady Grainger.”

“Oh!” Blanche’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes grew large. Although Lady Ingram said nothing, she lifted her chin higher and assumed a more pleasant look on her face. Even Mary seemed to rouse from her stupor, turning toward her mother to gauge the older woman’s reaction. Only Lucy’s slight frown told me that rather than being thrilled, she found this visit worrisome.

“Please tell her I am.” Our hostess shifted her slender form nervously, causing Mags a little inconvenience. “What an honor . . .”

I reviewed what I’d seen and heard about the Marchioness and her designs. Was this merely a social call or was something more sinister in play? I wondered about her objective, but just as quickly, I chided myself for being too dramatic. Of course the Marchioness might simply have been moved to visit Lady Grainger after seeing her at the opera last night. That was not terribly remarkable.

Or was it?

We took to our feet and waited respectfully while the heavy woman clumped her way up the stairs. When she arrived, I was further surprised to see that Marchioness Conyngham was escorted by none other than Phineas Waverly, his tipstaff again tucked under one arm.

Clearly accustomed to being the center of attention, Lady Elizabeth Conyngham leaned on her ebony cane patiently while we curtsied to her. Lady Grainger introduced us one by one.

“You may go, Waverly.” Lady Conyngham dismissed the Bow Street Runner with a flutter of her fingers, causing the numerous rings on her hands to glitter.

“I shall wait for you by the carriage, ma’am. If you need me . . .”

As Mr. Waverly turned to leave, his eyes sought mine and clearly bade me to follow. With an almost imperceptible raised finger, I signaled that I understood, although we both knew it might take me a while to join him.

“Oh, my dear young friends!” The Marchioness Conyngham opened her arms.

At first I did not realize that she was signaling a planned embrace of Lucy and me. Not wishing to embarrass ourselves, or her, we submitted to her affection. She gathered us to her copious self, where it was impossible to avoid the pungent scent of ambergris and patchouli. Amidst the cover of the Marchioness’s many ruffles and furbelows, Lucy’s eyes went wide and met mine. The situation was highly uncomfortable, but regrettably unavoidable.

At last, the august visitor released us and studied us as though Lucy and I were both long-lost friends of the highest order. “Dear Mrs. Brayton, you look lovely as always. And dear, dear Mrs. Rochester! What a pleasure to be in your company again!”

This shocked me. I had not reckoned on her taking note of my name. I had assumed last night was an aberration, a one-off event, and it would never happen again. But here I was, and the King’s lover acted as if I was dear to her in every way. I worked hard not to let my feelings show on my face.

What
, I wondered,
is the cause for this?
I had only just met the woman.
Why is she making such a fuss over me?

Behind the woman’s back, Blanche and her mother watched this pantomime. I detected a sense of defeat, an acceptance of my newly improved status. With the wiles of a skilled hostess, Lady Grainger launched a tedious discussion of the weather. To the relief of us all, the Marchioness chimed right in.

“Oh my!” I said with a start, as I lifted a hand to the side of my head and slipped one of my earrings into my palm. “I do believe I dropped one of my ear fobs. Ladies, please excuse me while I search for it.”

“I can ring for Dorsey, my abigail.” Lady Grainger smiled at me kindly. The atmosphere in her drawing room had changed from one of discord to acceptance, and inwardly I thanked our hostess for seeing to this turn of events. Although Marchioness Conyngham’s fulsome greeting had much to do with the shift, none of this would have happened without Lady Grainger’s interference. The tired lines around her mouth suggested there had been much haggling behind the scenes to bring us to this happy juncture.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am. No need. I believe I can recollect exactly where it might have happened. I shan’t be but a minute.” With that, I took off to find Mr. Waverly.

I found him leaning one shoulder against Lady Conyngham’s lavish purple and gold carriage. A troubled frown creased his forehead, and one hand was jammed deep into his pocket, while the other twirled his black baton in a spinning circle.

“Mrs. Rochester! Thank goodness you came!” He withdrew his pocket handkerchief and wiped his brow. Waverly is not a man given to nerves. In fact, his character would best be labeled steady or resolute. Yet, a tremor in his fingers gave me pause, as did the uneven timbre of his voice. “I must ask: Do you still have the letters we once discussed?”

“Why?” I hesitated to answer him.

“I must know. This is important. Do not toy with me, Mrs. Rochester. I think a great deal of you, but my job is to protect our King, and right now, you stand in the way of that.” He bit off each word as he spoke it.

“Yes. I have the one,” I told him. “The others I burned.”

“Did the King ask you about its disposition?”

I wondered what Waverly knew, what the King had said, and why Waverly seemed to suffer from his nerves. After all, if the King was happy to have me hold on to his letter, why should it bother the Bow Street Runner? “Yes, but he did not ask for it to be returned.”

Mr. Waverly responded by running a shaky hand through his hair. “Just as I expected. This grows worse and worse. Who else is aware of its existence?”

“Lucy knows of it. Edward does. Mr. Douglas knows because his sister shares everything with him, and I trust him implicitly.”

“Lady Conyngham knows about the letter, too. She likely listened in while you conversed with the King, and I suspect she queried him afterward.” He groaned. “You saw the copious spirits and laudanum she dispenses to him. The man was never good at holding his tongue, but under the influence of such agents, he is helpless, and puts himself—and our nation—at great risk.”

“But why does that cause you to worry? He called her his treasure. Why would she want to hurt him? Isn’t it to her advantage to keep him on the throne?”

“My good Mrs. Rochester, while deception is foreign to your character, others wear it as a cloak to hide their true intentions. I cannot discuss this with you further. Not now. But you must listen to me carefully: Promise to keep the letter safe. Give me your word! You cannot imagine the problems it might cause—nor can you guess at how eager Conyngham is to procure it.”

“Whatever for?”

“In truth, I am not sure why she is so determined, either, since it might threaten her blissful position as the King’s ‘dear friend.’ But that’s neither here nor there. She is wholly dedicated to its retrieval. I suspect that’s why she came to visit today, to judge your mettle. To calculate how best to persuade you. I asked to accompany her because I suspected her motives. I told the magistrate I should be assigned to her, and he agreed when he heard my reasoning. Swear to me that you will keep the letter hidden.”

His urgency served to increase my fears. “I promise. But if the letter is so important, why did the King not demand that I return it to him so he could destroy it himself?”

“Because he is never alone. Ever. She has surrounded him with spies. Granted, he sent couriers to buy the other love letters, but those were not so explicit. Embarrassing, yes, but not dangerous. Those he did destroy. But this letter is different. Vastly so. If he were to gain possession of it, a courier would surely snatch it away and deliver it to the King’s enemies. The spies around the King are well-paid, well-placed, and although it appears that they serve His Majesty, in actuality, they work for others. And as you have seen, our King is weak. He is often in a confused state, his health is poor, and I regret to say this, but he applies all his alert moments to planning his coronation.”

“So the most powerful man in the world is really also the weakest,” I said.

“Yes. That sums it up nicely. He would rather put you at risk than take on that risk himself. So you must promise me that you will be careful. Do not travel anywhere alone. Never go to the park again with only your son! Do you understand me?”

A cold breeze lifted the hem of my skirt and set my teeth to chattering. I rubbed my arms and wondered,
How did he know where I’d been? And that Ned and I had been alone?

I longed to ask him, but the longer I was away, the harder it would be to explain my absence. So I had to make do with nodding vigorously and returning to the drawing room, where I took my place in the circle between Lady Conyngham and Lady Grainger.