The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (33 page)

Incredulous, Alethea stared at Titus. “Dead? He cannot be dead.”

“He is dead, I assure you, and has been dead this last week.”

Alethea looked down at her hands, still resting on the keys. “Dead,” she repeated softly to herself. She couldn't take it in, the word meant nothing. Another word crept into her head. Widow. She was a widow.

She got up from the piano stool and went over to the window, looking out across the parkland with unseeing eyes. Then she spoke to Titus, reflected in the glass. “I am glad of it. There, that is a monstrous thing to say of any being, is it not? It has the virtue, however, of being the truth.”

“You may not be so glad when you hear how he met his end,” said Titus drily.

“How was that?”

“He was murdered.”

“Murdered!” Now she felt some of the shock and alarm that might be considered natural to a young woman hearing of the death of her husband of less than a year.

“Who murdered him? In Italy, this was, I suppose, only how can the news have travelled so fast? Was he poisoned?”

“You do read too many novels, don't you? No, he was pistolled, and with one of his own guns.”

“Perhaps he killed himself.”

“Perhaps he did, if it weren't that he was shot in the back. And this event did not take place in Italy, but in London.”

“In London! How came he to be in London? We made sure he would still be hunting me in Italy.”

“Nevertheless, he arrived back in England last Tuesday, in perfect health, and was found dead on Wednesday morning.”

“How did you hear this?”

“I had a letter this morning from my sister, who supposed I might be interested. It is also in the newspapers, which I sent for at once: grave concern expressed that the killer has not been apprehended and brought to justice, our streets unsafe for decent citizens, and so on and so forth.”

“A week ago!” While they had still been on the high seas, Napier had been breathing his last in London. “I have never set foot in Napier's London house,” she said inconsequentially. “He wouldn't let me visit London.”

“You may visit there as often as you please now, for I dare say the house is yours.”

Alethea blinked, surprised. “I—that is, I have no idea how things are fixed. The lawyers—it was all arranged by the lawyers. I didn't consider it important, and of course my opinion on financial matters was never sought.”

“I should be most surprised if your own fortune at least was not secured upon you in the event of Napier's demise. As to the rest—however, that is not to be thought of at present. Now we have to consider what you are to do.”

“Must I play the grieving widow?” Then, as realisation of what had happened finally sank home, she sat down again.

“That's what the newspapers say you are, alone and desolated in Napier's country seat.”

“But the people at Tyrrwhit House will know I am not there.”

“Yes, and I dare say questions are already being asked as to your whereabouts. This happened only a week ago, it is not so very long. What would you prefer to do? My advice would be for you to go to London; my carriage is at your disposal, or you may order Wytton's to take you.”

Even amid the whirl of thoughts tumbling in her head, Alethea took in that Titus, for once, wasn't telling her what she should do. And, for once, she very much wished that he would. “You advise me to go to London. What else can I do? Can I not stay here?”

“I think it best for you to be in London at this time; however, it is entirely your decision. You look quite pale; allow me to call Figgins to you.”

“It is just a shock, it is only now sinking in. Napier dead! Is it truly so? And in so terrible a fashion. Was there an intruder?”

Titus shook his head. “According to the account in the newspaper, there were signs that he had been dining with another person that evening. There were no signs of a forced entry.”

“The servants, where were the servants? Perhaps one of them was the murderer. I cannot tell you how unpleasant his servants are. I should not be surprised to learn that any one of them had committed a crime.”

“Perhaps, but they can hardly all be potential murderers. I should not mention the servants, if I were you.” He paused, and spoke in a kinder voice. “If you intend to go to London, I do not think you can go too quickly; you would do well to leave at once. You will stay with Lady Fanny, I assume?”

“Fanny? I hadn't thought—yes, yes; I had better go to Aubrey Square.”

 

Alethea took in nothing of the journey, heedless of a landscape that so shortly before had been so desolate in the rain and was now aglow with summer. Her thoughts were all inward: her situation, her secrets—so many secrets—what would be required of her once she reached London.

The carriage turned into Aubrey Square, and there was Fanny at the door, holding out her arms and escorting her niece indoors while issuing a volley of commands for wine, smelling salts, a doctor—

“Fanny, I'm not ill.”

“No, but you are so thin and pale. My dear”—with a cry of dismay—“you are wearing yellow, it is positively indecent, where are your blacks?”

“Blacks?” said Alethea as Fanny thrust her on to a sofa and instructed her to put up her feet. “I've had no time to think of mourning.”

“No, not a word of protest, I can see how fagged you are from the journey. Dawson is bringing hot towels for your hands and face, and cologne—yes, blacks; oh, you are so young to be a widow, it is all so dreadful. And to die in such a way.”

“Fanny,” said Alethea, sitting up very straight. “Let us get one thing straight. I have to tell you that I feel no real grief at Napier's death.”

“It is shock; oh Lord, I knew we should have sent for Dr. Molloy.”

“It is not shock, it is sense. Ours was a terrible marriage; no, listen to me, Fanny, for I must speak before Cousin Fitzwilliam makes an appearance, he will die himself if he hears what I have to say.”

Fanny lifted her hands to her face. “Alethea, you are not aware of what you say. And how come you to be so brown? Never tell me you have been outside without shading your face from the sun; how are you ever to get your complexion restored? And you are so thin, and I am sure you are grown another inch at least.”

“Only listen to me, Fanny. Quickly, now, while we are alone. Napier was not the man he seemed. He was unkind—no, brutal to me, he treated me as he would not have treated his dog.”

Fanny stared at her, aghast. Alethea could see that she was shaken to the core, but Fanny was no innocent, she had been out in the world long enough to know that not all marriages were happy.

“So charming a man, such exquisite manners, and a real love of music; we all thought, we hoped—only when you never came to London, I did wonder. I wrote to Letty, but she said Napier was the most doting of husbands, and Fitzwilliam said that you had always had a kick in your gallop and that you would settle down soon enough. And of course, when there is a child—”

“Thank God there are to be no children from my union with Napier.”

Alethea's words were so heartfelt that Fanny was silenced. “Was it so very bad, your marriage?”

Sympathy would undo her. She would not, must not cry. “It could not have been worse.”

“Oh, good Lord, it is all too much for me, the murder, and you sitting there so calmly and telling me—”

“Napier was an innately cruel man, and selfish to the bone. He wished to destroy me, to destroy my soul and my music and my reason for living, and that is why I'm not a grieving widow.”

“No, no, I quite see that. Only, Alethea, you must not say so. Within these four walls is one thing, but it must go no further. You have to wear black and be subdued if you cannot be tearful. Dignity will always be approved, and you will attract a deal of sympathy, young as you are.”

“Sympathy! That is the last thing I want.”

“I hope you said nothing at Tyrrwhit House that would reveal your feelings.”

“I wasn't there,” said Alethea, flushing despite herself. “I have travelled up today from Shillingford.”

“Shillingford! Is Camilla returned? How comes this?”

“Camilla is still abroad, but her mother-in-law invited me to stay.”

“Then Lady Hermione is back, I had no idea.”

Alethea wondered whether to tell her that Lady Hermione Wytton was still in Italy, but decided it was best to keep a discreet silence. Dawson came in with a glass of wine and some macaroons. She greeted Alethea with a kind look, and said she was sorry to hear of her troubles, and that a supper was being laid for her downstairs.

“I am sure Miss Alethea, Mrs. Napier, I mean, is far too upset to eat.”

“On the contrary, thank you, Dawson.”

“Mr. Fitzwilliam has been sent for to his club and is expected home directly,” Dawson said to Fanny.

Alethea's heart sank. Mr. Fitzwilliam would disapprove of her yellow dress, of her having been at Shillingford, of her coming to London, of her lack of tears, of everything about her.

“Now, mind what I say, Alethea,” said Fanny as soon as Dawson left the room. “Not a word to Fitzwilliam of how you feel. You must be a good girl, as I know you can be, and do just as people will expect. First and foremost, black clothes must be procured for you; Dawson will know how to go about finding something for you to wear at once, and then my dressmaker will come tomorrow and we can rig you out properly. Black, in June, and with your colouring, so unbecoming. Still, there is no help for it.”

 

Fortunately, the evening was got through more easily than Alethea had feared. The journey, the strain of putting on a front, and her uneasiness at knowing how appalled her cousins would be if they had the least hint of where she had been these last few weeks brought on a genuine headache.

“Was there some estrangement between you and Napier?” Fitzwilliam asked as he tucked into a bowl of strawberries and cream. “We heard from Georgina that you had been to Paris without your husband, although she gave no details—”

Thank God for that, at least.

“—then there have been rumours of Napier behaving rather oddly; people said he had gone to Vienna, to see Mr. Darcy.”

“Papa is in Constantinople again, so that cannot be the case,” said Alethea, picking her words carefully. “Napier was a man to act upon impulse.” That was true enough.

Fitzwilliam wiped his mouth and laid down his napkin. “Any suggestion of a coolness between you and Napier must be denied. We cannot be too careful at a time like this.”

Alethea put her hand to her throbbing eyes.

“Alethea, you should go to bed, I can see how your head aches,” said Fanny. “Figgins may bring you up a tisane, and in the morning, perhaps things will not seem so bad.”

The morning brought welcome activity: gowns, shoes, hats, all in unrelieved black, arrived at Aubrey Square, where Figgins and Dawson fell upon them, needles and scissors in hand, to make them fit for Alethea to wear. Madame Foutgibu arrived to measure and show patterns of more black clothes, “for you will need to have everything black for now, there will have to be at least three months of the deepest mourning,” said Fanny.

Which prospect depressed Alethea's spirits still further. Scarcely a fortnight ago, she had been enjoying the brilliant colours of Lisbon; now her world had shrunk to a black nightmare.

“Surely I may leave off my blacks when I am here, within doors,” she said.

Fanny was adamant. “Word would fly round London, you know how servants talk, or if we had callers who caught sight of you—no, it is not to be thought of.”

And it was clad in black from head to foot that she sat with Fanny the next day, at the time of Napier's funeral and entombment in the family vault at Tyrrwhit. Mr. Fitzwilliam had travelled down to represent the family; Fanny and Alethea read through the burial service at the appointed time.

“Amen,” said Alethea, shutting the Prayer Book and laying it down with a thump on the table. “The End.”

“I know you did not, as things were, care for him,” said Fanny reprovingly, “but this is not a time for levity.”

“He lived by violence and he died by violence,” said Alethea, but under her breath.

Free of him she might be, but freedom in any wider sense was not what life at Aubrey Square was about. Fanny had told Fitzwilliam that Napier had not treated Alethea well; he pursed his lips and looked grave and said that young women were not always the best judges of their husband's behaviour. He expected Alethea to behave with excessive decorum, saying that any hint of frivolity at this difficult time was to be deplored.

Restless and bored, surrounded by domesticity and missing—although she refused to admit this to herself—Titus's clever and amusing company, she grew more and more irritable. This worried Fanny, who had some understanding of Alethea's turbulent nature, which in its turn made Alethea feel angry with herself and ungrateful and, in the end, even more irritable.