Hounds of Autumn (4 page)

Giles jumped onto Ambrose’s new desk and set to pawing at the blotter. Chloe grabbed him and cuddled him to her bosom.

“Let her make her baubles or she’ll be impossible,” she overheard Ambrose say to Alexander. Chloe shot him a furious look and then forced herself to turn away. He was doing his best to secure her not only the supplies and space she needed, but also the freedom from criticism and inquiry that her activities would produce. She was fortunate, she reminded herself sternly. He always honored their marriage agreement, allowing her to select reading material without his approval and to work on her projects without interference. In return, she went to great efforts to be discreet and not bring him shame.

She pressed a kiss between Giles’s ears. Ambrose trusted her. She could do her work. It would be enough.

Chapter 4

C
hloe descended to supper that
evening in a taffeta dress and light matching shawl. She splashed her face with water to freshen up, and Miss Haynes had re-pinned her wild hair so as to be presentable. The family would be evaluating her and she wanted their acceptance, if only for Ambrose’s sake. She was nervous, but despite this, she had developed a healthy appetite since her small meal of bread and cheese on the airship.

The muffled whirring of Giles’s gears escorted Chloe down the stairs as he padded behind her on hand-stitched felt paws. Ambrose was waiting at the dining room door, and she took his arm to enter. He held the door open an extra moment to allow Giles to enter behind his mistress.

The dining room was decorated in deep reds and browns and was dominated by a long oak table, large enough for twenty, but set for nine. Chairs upholstered in burgundy matched the curtains, which were pulled shut to keep out the chill. The fire in the marble-mantled fireplace crackled gently, leaving the room comfortably warm.

All three men at the table rose. At the head was an elderly man, gray-bearded and stout, with the build and bearing of a formerly muscular man. This must be William, the patriarch. Ambrose introduced Chloe to him first. She then curtseyed to Ian, whom she had already met, and Robert, the youngest of the Aynesworth children. Robert was a gangly youth, thin, tall and long of face like his brother Ian.

Ambrose pulled out a chair for Chloe, and Giles settled himself nearby. Four of the place settings were still unoccupied, and a minute later, Alexander came in, his wife Beatrice on his arm. She was a petite woman, finely boned with thin, mouse-brown hair that fell in frizzled curls around her face. She smiled gently as they were introduced and was seated.

“We are so glad you could come and visit us,” Beatrice said. “We don’t often have visitors. I know my mother and Dora will be so glad.”

“I’m certain I will,” said the woman in the doorway. She was tall, like her siblings, with thick dark hair. Her deep red dress was two or three years out of date, but favored her coloring and figure. She had a statuesque beauty that made her look like a young gypsy.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Dora as her father introduced Chloe and Ambrose. She took the seat that Ian held out for her. “I thought I’d be the last one down.” She frowned. Mrs. Malone, Beatrice’s mother, and a permanent houseguest, had not yet arrived.

Chloe watched her husband and their host, William, each try to keep a conversation going. The years of animosity and lack of contact had left them with little to speak of, but Ambrose was trying hard to be pleasant and agreeable. He was uneasy, but only a wife would notice. His left hand remained in his lap instead of gesturing good-naturedly. He took too many sips from his crystal water goblet, which a helpful servant refilled promptly.

“Please tell me,” said Ambrose, “is my old friend John Hammond still in town?”

“He is,” said William.

The two men discussed Ambrose’s friend, whom he had met while visiting his sister Rose in the early days of her marriage, thirty-odd years before. A fellow natural science enthusiast, he and Ambrose had formed a friendship after meeting one day while observing a juvenile meadow pipit trying its wings. Sadly, their correspondence had dwindled and then ceased altogether.

The clock chimed once, indicating a quarter past the hour. Mrs. Malone had still not arrived and Beatrice motioned a servant over and whispered instructions. The servant girl bobbed a curtsey and left.

“Do you think your mother is unwell?” asked Chloe.

“Unlikely,” said Beatrice with a weary smile.

William motioned for the first course of asparagus soup to be served. A servant placed a bowl of soup at Mrs. Malone’s empty place.

“Have you decided on the trim for the dress?” Beatrice asked Dora.

Dora lifted the lid of the cut crystal butter dish and spread butter on her bread. “I think so. I do wish Father would allow me to go to London and have a proper dress made up.” She shot a glare down the table at William, who was nodding over something Alexander said. “The dressmaker in town lacks the imagination for a truly fashionable dress. Too much time spent making wedding dresses for the daughters of farmers and tin miners, I think.”

Beatrice smiled and turned to Chloe. “Dora is getting married in just three months. We’re so excited—well, Mother and I mainly. You see, Dora wants a unique dress, but can’t make up her mind on what she wants. And the dressmaker is not much help, as she doesn’t know the very latest fashions. Even so, Dora will be beautiful. I just know it.” She smiled fondly at her sister-in-law.

Dora’s cheeks colored. She would indeed be a lovely bride with her regal carriage, raven’s wing black hair and piercing dark eyes. If Chloe’s calculations were correct, she was in her mid-twenties, old enough to have serious concerns about becoming a spinster. Chloe understood that feeling all too well. She had been twenty-seven when Ambrose had asked for her hand, and she had long since given up any hope of marriage.

“Who is the lucky gentleman?” asked Chloe.

“His name is Patrick Baxter. He’s American,” said Dora.

“And not a pauper by any means,” said a new voice.

The stately older woman standing nearby was sturdily built, but not heavy. Her iron-gray hair was tastefully styled and she inclined her head politely as the men at the table rose. She set aside her elephant-headed cane and slowly lowered herself into the chair that Alexander pulled out for her. She took her time arranging her napkin before allowing her son-in-law to push in her chair. Her sharp blue eyes narrowed as she scanned the family while they ate their asparagus soup.

“He made a handsome fortune in the Yukon,” said Dora. “He found gold up the river. He had an actual Indian guide. Can you imagine?”

“An outdoorsman then,” said Chloe, a touch uneasy discussing a man’s financial status over a meal. “Has he traveled extensively?”

“Oh yes,” Dora said. “To the Continent, Northern Africa, Scotland and of course he came here. And once we’re married, I’ll be able to go with him all over the world.” She looked pleased at the prospect, and Chloe couldn’t help but feel pleasure for her.

“It’s cold,” said Mrs. Malone, jabbing a finger at her soup and motioning over a servant who took the bowl and brought a replacement a few moments later.

“Tell her how you met,” said Beatrice, glancing uneasily at her mother who was now scowling and blowing on a steaming spoonful of soup.

Dora explained how she and Mr. Baxter had met at a party thrown by a local family who Mr. Baxter knew through some complicated series of events. Chloe was only half-listening, but she tried to look interested.

As the women continued on about wedding preparations, flowers and punch recipes, Chloe listened in on the men’s conversation. Ambrose was telling his nephews about his papers on English flora and fauna, and Robert was rapt with attention. She noted that Robert’s questions to Ambrose were intelligent and that he knew more than a fair amount about the local plant life.

“I would like to send a few letters in the outgoing post,” said Ambrose. “I have colleagues in London as well as at Oxford. And I would like to write to a certain Mr. Brian Graves Senior. I heard that his son was working in your employ as a tutor.” He smiled broadly at Robert. “And I think he’s done a fine bit of work.”

Robert’s eyes flicked down to the tabletop.

“Mr. Graves is no longer in our employ,” said William. “His mother took ill months ago and he had to leave.”

“I see,” said Ambrose. The soup bowls were cleared and their main meal of lamb with herbed potatoes was served.

Beatrice turned to Chloe. “Alexander mentioned that you make little mechanical animals and things.”

Chloe nodded.

“And can you repair them? I have a little robin that pins to a hat, and it isn’t working anymore.”

“I’d love to look at it. You can have it brought to Ambrose’s study and I’ll examine it. My materials won’t be here until tomorrow, though.”

Ian leaned in toward his father and murmured something into his ear. William gave a sober nod and his mouth tightened.

“Ian has assured me that you all have been informed of Mrs. Granger’s death.” He swallowed. “Unfortunate. Most unfortunate. I’m certain Mr. Granger will send a notice and inform us of the date of her funeral.”

“Do you think it proper for us to attend?” Beatrice asked.

When no one spoke, Robert looked back and forth between his older brothers, confused. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“She was murdered while walking on the moor,” Beatrice said gently. “Alone.”

Chloe paused for a moment, not immediately understanding the implication, then drew in a breath, disgusted. Ambrose was looking down at his meal, but she saw the tension in his posture.

Robert shook his head in bewilderment. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“You see, we don’t know what she was doing out there,” said Dora.

Chloe glared at Dora, then at Beatrice, but all eyes at the table were on Robert. Understanding dawned on his face, and he nodded. He glanced at his father, who looked deeply unhappy, and then Robert took a nervous sip from his water goblet.

“I’m in complete agreement,” said Mrs. Malone. “It’s only prudent to decline to attend. We must be mindful of public opinion. Dora is yet unmarried, and we wouldn’t want to damage Mr. Baxter’s opinion of her.” She put her hand maternally on Dora’s. Dora started in shock before casting a wary glance at Mrs. Malone and nodding once in acknowledgement.

Chloe felt her cheeks flush hot at the thought of her brilliant and vivacious friend going unmourned because she was murdered outdoors instead of dying respectably in her own bed. She took a breath to steady herself before speaking.

“Doesn’t everyone take a walk on the moor occasionally?”

“We do. But we aren’t assaulted when we go out,” said Mrs. Malone, fixing her with a bright blue gaze. “And we always go in daylight. She must have been involved in something dreadful to be attacked in such a way. Perhaps she was keeping company with an unsuitable person.” Her last two words were spoken with too much force and venom.

“She and I have been in correspondence for three years and I can assure you that she was as upright a person as you would care to meet,” Chloe straightened up and Mrs. Malone’s eyes widened in shock.

“You know nothing about it. How could you? You never even met the woman.”

“I know enough to understand that a good woman has been murdered. It’s unthinkable to deny her a proper and fitting burial.” Chloe felt Ambrose shift uncomfortably in the chair beside her.

“She will have a fitting and proper burial,” said Alexander. His expression was gentle and his tone soothing. “Mrs. Granger was a great favorite in our house. She was a lovely woman and we all liked her.” He looked at Mrs. Malone who leaned back in her chair, glaring. “But I implore you to understand, Mrs. Sullivan. The circumstances of her death prevent us from giving public scandal by attending. For us to be present would be to condone her behavior.”

“But aside from walking, which Mrs. Malone admits that everyone does, what was this behavior?” Chloe kept her eyes on Alexander, knowing that to glance at Mrs. Malone would only anger her further.

Alexander hesitated, opened his mouth and closed it again. Beatrice spoke instead.

“She disappeared five days ago. Everyone presumed she was with another person,” said Beatrice. Another person? Camille had a paramour? Unthinkable. Chloe would not believe it. “Although a few said she had returned to her family in France.”

Chloe’s heart sank. Poor Camille, trapped with an unkind husband. She knew from the letters that Camille was unhappy, but she had no idea that the situation was so bad. To leave her husband would create a scandal, humiliation for both her, her family and her husband. She must have been truly desperate to do such a thing. Her husband must have been a tyrant, a drunkard, or even violent. It was the only explanation that made sense. And if she had been fleeing a violent husband, then she had been forced to it.

But why hadn’t Camille written to her for help? They were friends. She would have been more than welcome to stay with them in London for an extended visit. What fun times they could have had in Chloe’s laboratory. What discoveries they could have made. And perhaps an extended absence could have improved Camille’s conditions at home.

“Well, I do not care,” said Chloe. “I am going to the funeral if I have to attend alone.” She glared at Mrs. Malone and swept the table with a defiant look.

“Chloe, please,” Ambrose said so softly that he was nearly inaudible. Chloe softened and looked down at her plate of cooling lamb and potatoes. She took a bite to keep herself from saying anything further. Conversation at the table gradually resumed.

“—Can’t control a wife half his age,” said a female voice. Chloe looked up to see Beatrice patting her mouth with a napkin. Dora had a catlike look of satisfaction. She was the one who had spoken.

“My husband—” Chloe blazed, then felt Ambrose’s hand on hers beneath the table and stopped. With supreme effort, she placed another bite in her mouth and Ambrose’s hand disappeared.

Ambrose fixed Dora, then Beatrice and Mrs. Malone with a cool look. Chloe was ashamed for rising to their bait. If they found her marriage strange, so be it. The details of her marriage agreement were none of their concern. Her husband was a great deal older than she was. But Ambrose allowed her freedoms that a less mature man would have forbidden. She knew she could be impulsive, and resolved, for the hundredth time, not to shame Ambrose ever again.

At the far end of the table, William glared at Dora and Beatrice, red-faced with fury.

“We are going to the funeral,” he declared, savagely cutting into his lamb. “Mrs. Granger was our friend, and we will mourn her with respect. And if we are the only reputable family in the church, then so be it!”

After a silence during which Dora scowled and Beatrice flushed pink, the conversation returned to the safe topic of wedding preparations. Robert made eye contact with his older brother Ian, who had been mostly silent throughout the entire meal. Robert looked pleased, and a ghost of a smile passed over Ian’s frowning lips.