The Gilded Cage (14 page)

She's started crying so hard she can't speak for a moment but can only shake her head fiercely. “It's not—it's not that. I don't care what happens to me! It's what will happen to Matt, and that it's all my fault!” She breaks into a fresh round of tears, face buried in her apron. I draw her into an embrace, and her raw unhappiness gives me leave to dwell a moment on my own.

With a final, shuddering breath, Elsie comes back to herself. “I'm not ungrateful,” she says immediately. “Thank you, Lady Katherine, for helping me keep my position!”

“Of course. Now go splash your face. We have plenty of tea already, and Mrs. Whiting needn't know you've been crying.”

She nods and darts away, hands still twisted into her damp apron.

“Lady
Randolph
.”

I spin round to find Mr. Carrick in the hall behind me, looking ill at ease in my presence. I decide this is preferable to his usual air of smug superiority.

“Yes, Mr. Carrick?”

“You have a visitor. Would you like to receive in the morning room or the main parlor?”

I smile, relieved—Jane hadn't ignored my letter after all. “The morning room will do. Please have tea sent in.” Our conversation will be more private there.

I settle myself on a pink-and-green-striped sofa, a rare object in this house in that it's both beautiful
and
comfortable. At the soft sound of someone clearing their throat, I look up.

William Simpson is standing in the doorway. Despite his expression, one of soft diffidence, my mind goes instantly to my dream. The ghost of his mouth on my skin, my brother's body in the road. It was him in the dream; now I'm sure of it.

“Lady Katherine?” He holds his hat to his chest, and a leather satchel hangs from his hand.

It takes me a couple of seconds to realize that he is the visitor I am receiving, not my friend. “Yes! Mr. Simpson, I'm sorry. I had a … a moment of dizziness. Please sit down.”

He takes a seat in a chair just opposite the portrait of my grandfather. I watch his eyes tracing the painted figure. “We met in this room, did we not, Lady Katherine?” His voice has a hint of a smile in it.

The appearance of a maid bearing our tea on a tray saves me from answering. I thank her, then send her away, ducking my head over our cups while waiting for my blush to fade.

“You're here, I suppose, to begin putting the estate's affairs in order?”

It's his turn to redden, shifting with embarrassment in his seat. “We can talk about that if you wish. If you're ready. I'm here only to tell you … I don't know what it will mean to you now, but the Royal Academy will be going on with its exhibition of your brother's work. I have corresponded with the curator, and he offers his condolences. He believes the paintings will go for more, even, than they would for a…” He looks uncomfortable again. “For a living artist. But I told him I did not think you were willing to sell.”

I look at him, surprised by the insight. “Thank you. I would not sell my brother's work to any private houses. But if a museum wished to purchase a painting, I would consider the sale.” I speak carefully, and realize that I'd already decided this in my mind, without conscious thought. The idea of my brother's work hanging in a museum, alongside that of the great masters, still sends a sad thrill through me.

Mr. Simpson nods. “Yes, I think that is exactly how I should handle it, were I in your place.”

The first distant volley of gunshots echoes through the room, and a furrow appears between his brows. “Have they gone on with the winter hunt, then? So soon after your family's loss?” He looks as if he might say more, but falls silent.

His words are impertinent but echo my own sentiments. “And with my blessing, though I'll admit it was not freely given. Nor was it asked for, until the guests were nearly arrived.” My voice sounds bitter to my own ears, so I attempt, feebly, to change course. “Do you often shoot, sir?”

“The pursuit has never interested me. I'm a great walker, but I'd much prefer to carry an umbrella through the streets of London than a gun through the woods. Perhaps that sounds odd to a farm girl, but I suppose my upbringing can be blamed for it.”

Something in the way that he says “farm girl” makes me think that he sees my former life as a point of interest, not a weakness. Mr. Simpson swirls the contents of his teacup as shots resound from the woods beyond.

“We can speak on the subject of my will,” I say abruptly. “I do wish to have that, at least, under control.”

He puts down his cup and pulls paper and a writing utensil from his satchel with practiced swiftness. Giving me an encouraging nod, he leans over a page. That stubborn lock of dark hair falls over his brow, but he pays it no heed.

“I would like to know that Grace and Henry will be provided for until their deaths,” I say. “Beyond that, however…” I think of George at the docks in Bristol, emptying his pockets for the children, and speak from my heart. “I want my estate divided into two parts. One will go toward the founding of an orphanage in London. I want it to be named after my brother, and I want his paintings to find a permanent home there one day. The rest should go to my foster parents. I don't know what they'll do with such a sum, but I expect they will find a use for it—I anticipate them having many grandchildren.”

“How lucky for them to have such a grateful foster child—though I do hope you outlive them by a fair measure. One day in the future, I hope we will sit together to change the terms of this will, to the benefit of your own children.”

“I cannot imagine that just yet,” I say. “There is so much death around me, new life is hard to contemplate.”

He looks troubled, drinking the dregs of his tea. “You must miss your foster parents terribly. They sound very kind.”

“Salt of the earth,” I say, forcing a smile. “Though they had six children of their own, they took George and me in when we were orphaned. Nobody's life is easy in the country—we all worked hard on their ranch—but it was happy. We were never without love, we never went hungry, and they did not begrudge us anything.”

“It sounds like you had a good life there.”

“I did.” I remember his strange response that night in London, when I asked about his family, and decide to try again. “Where does your own family live, Mr. Simpson? I don't recall whether you were brought up in London.”

“I was not,” he says lightly. “And I don't have family to speak of.”

I'm about to ask more, when the screaming begins.

 

CHAPTER 15

M
R. SIMPSON IS ON
his feet before I am. “Wait here, Lady Katherine,” he says urgently, striding from the room. I ignore him and follow close on his heels, pressing my hands to my thumping heart. We join the small stream of startled staff, rushing to the house's front lawn.

There we find the source of the screaming: Elsie, her head flopped down between her shoulders, flanked on either side by whispering maids. They're half carrying her limp body back into the house, though they look close to swooning themselves. “It was the Beast, I know it!” one shrills. As they pass me, I hear Elsie whimpering something, broken words coming out of her in a stream. “I thought it was Matt, oh God! I thought it was him, oh thank you God.…”

I look down at my hands, chilled with a premonition, a touch of second sight: They will soon be covered in blood. My eyes go, unwilling, to the two men laboring up the lawn. Matt and Henry, carrying something between them. The arrogant man with the black mustache walks alongside, twisting his hands together. “There's been an accident!” he yells, then repeats it twice more. Mr. Dowling is beside him, clapping a comforting arm about his shoulder in an effort to quiet his panic.

As I continue across the lawn, frightened but unable to stop, all I can see clearly are the men's broad black backs and bowed heads, but not their cargo. Then one of them stumbles a bit, and I see what I couldn't before, the thing held sagging between them. John, fighting against their arms. His body is rigid, pitching upward with pain, and his chest dark with blood.

“What's happened?” I cry. Mr. Simpson takes my elbow before I can run.

“Stand back, Katherine. Let them carry him.”

I slump into him, and he circles his arm about me, his face stony and pale. We follow the group of men toward the house—poor Matt at John's feet, looking as though he could cry; Henry, cool and terse, supporting his shoulders. Again I see the mark of authority on his brow, the sharp efficiency of his soldiering days. “Not through that door!” he barks. “Carry him around to the servants' entrance.”

“Are you mad? You're wasting time!” I say.

“Take her into the house, Mr. Simpson,” Henry replies. “Don't look, Katherine.”

To Mr. Simpson's credit, he does not listen. We follow the men into a scullery, where Mr. Dowling moves an aproned cook aside and quickly sweeps the large central table clear of the things set out for baking. John is laid across its floury surface. Several servants and men from the hunt press themselves against the far wall, watching, and Mr. Simpson pulls the curtains back from the windows as far as they'll go. Henry takes out a pocketknife and begins cutting John's shirt away from his chest.

The blood flows free and fast, obscuring the wound. “Katherine, move
back
,” Henry says. Ignoring him, I grab a pile of clean washcloths from a sideboard. I press them hard into John's chest, ignoring his watery moan. But when he bares his teeth in pain, they're glazed in red, and I know that it's too late.

His eyes lock on mine, and the snatches of conversation around me fade into background noise, reaching my ears as if through a heavy fog.

“He was reloading his gun.…”

“Poor chap, should've known better than to hold it that way.…”

“Don't speak of it now, not in front of the young lady.…”

John's eyes roll white and wild in his head as I lean in toward him. “Just breathe,” I whisper. “Lie quiet.” His eyes are calming now, but I can see, too, that their light is dying away. He raises an arm, I think to touch me, then brings it down to rest at the pocket of his peeled-back coat. I clasp the other, flopping uselessly near his throat. Our noses nearly touch. His lips move again, over blood-slicked teeth, and his eyes pulse with terror and urgency. Silently he mouths something, then gives a weak shudder, and is gone.

Nobody speaks for a long moment. When I step back, blood is caked on my black dress and smeared over my skin. With horror I remember that my brother had to breathe his last breath alone. I offer up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I was able to save John from that fate.

The other men, their faces grave, have moved outside to smoke with shaking hands. Henry leans forward onto balled fists at John's side, his face turned down toward the table.

“How did this happen?” asks Mr. Dowling, his voice half-solicitous and half-formal, falling smoothly into his role as magistrate.

Henry stands upright, running one hand hard across his face. “We were coming up on a covey,” he says dully. “I'd run ahead of him to gain a better position. I fired, I missed, I called back to John for another gun. I heard a shot go off below, but did not immediately turn. I thought perhaps he'd tried for something himself. He said no word, made no sound. When I turned back, he was on the ground.” His voice breaks. “God knows how this could have happened. The boy's been loading guns as long as he's been riding horses.”

Wearily, avoiding my gaze, he gestures to Mr. Simpson. “Sir, will you help me move him to the west wing? It's the coldest part of the house.”

Before I can wince at the familiar words, something slips from John's pocket and hits the ground with a cold clatter. I see that it fell from the pocket his hand had gestured toward, moments before he slipped away. Mr. Simpson stoops low to inspect the thing without touching it, and as I watch, the whole line of his body goes absolutely still.

He turns shocked eyes on me. “Katherine, please look at this thing.” I swipe the ready tears from my eyes and kneel down beside him. A gold pocket watch lies on the ground, engraved in sweeping script:
G.R.

In a flash, I see my father, lit by the amber light of memory, winding the watch with careful pride. “My God,” I breathe. Henry crowds in at my shoulder, and I hear his breath catch.

“Everyone, leave the room,” he says. “All but you, Mr. Simpson, and you, Mr. Dowling.” Gape-mouthed servants file out of the room, some knuckling at their eyes or openly weeping.

Henry turns to the three of us that remain, his jaw tight. “I must insist that the news of this discovery not leave Walthingham Hall. Two such tragedies in close succession, it is almost more than I can bear. But this new finding … Katherine, can you confirm that this is your brother's watch?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “He carried it with him always. It belonged to our father—his name was George, too.”

“Good God, Henry,” Mr. Dowling says heavily. “Could it be that this servant had a hand in the death of the heir?”

Henry's eyes flash to mine, followed by Mr. Dowling's. “Lady Randolph, I hope that you may forgive me one day,” says the magistrate, “for dismissing your fears out of hand.”

I nod, holding my cold fingers out to meet his. “Of course I do, sir.”

My suspicions have been borne out at last, my fears vindicated. But it's an empty triumph. A cold revulsion takes hold in the pit of my stomach—could it be that the same hands that held me the night before, that slid hotly over my skin, so recently ended my brother's life?

 

CHAPTER 16

H
ENRY SENDS MATT
to Bath in pursuit of the coroner, and Mr. Dowling leads several men through the halls to John's room, where they will search for other effects of my brother's. Alone in the scullery, I take a damp cloth to the watch, swirling away clots of dried red. The wan light through the windows illuminates my haggard hands, and the air smells of pipe smoke, blood, and damp feathers—one of the men hung a row of broken grouse overhead. No point in wasting the meat, of course, but the act seems terribly petty. As I remove the final smudge, I turn the watch over to inspect its motionless hands. My father wound his watch daily. But now when I try to do the same, the mechanism won't work.