The Sanctuary (A Spencer Novel) (29 page)

Even as Anthony’s heart swelled with affection for the diminutive lady who gallantly offered their assistance, he noticed Stallings’ attention fix on Ruby.

Rafael clasped Ruby’s hand. “The company of such lovely ladies is enough to alleviate the tension, but I regret this ugliness has touched you.”

“My dear man, though we may appear to have lived a sheltered existence, the reality of our circumstances is quite different. We have each witnessed happenings we considered most unpleasant, but unless one wishes to withdraw from life due to its occasional atrocities, we must go on.” Ruby patted the large hand still engulfing hers.

Rafael smiled. “I have indeed underestimated you,
Señorita
Ruby. I stand corrected.”

“No need, young man.” Ruby’s gaze swung to Anthony. “We won’t keep you, dear. We understand you have a lot to discuss.” She slipped her arm through Opal’s. “Come along, ladies.” The three women disappeared around the corner.

“Life would be most dreary without our women to enliven it,” Rafael announced with a grin.

Chapter 51

In the pages of Roger’s diary, Clairece discovered an unimagined truth. In his misguided attempt to save her further heartache, he made a tragic decision, one casting him into years of self-imposed hell.

She followed the slow progression from rationalization to wretchedness, to the realization he had deceived her in the most heinous of ways. The deception evolved into a nightmare for both of them; hers of loss, his of betrayal.

Convinced the child would not live, Roger handed the baby to a waiting nurse to take from the room. But she had lived. His fabrication had led him to place a gravestone under the tree in the garden.

Caught in a web of deceit and seeing no way to redeem himself, Roger moved the caregiver and infant to a small cottage and paid the nurse to look after the babe. As time passed, fear of exposure and loss silenced any thought of revealing the truth.

Roger’s regard for Clairece had indeed altered. From the initial father-uncle roll, he fell in love, and she had not recognized the change. Words blurred as Clairece read the final entry in Roger’s journal dated just before their ill-fated trip to New York.

17
th
April, 1896. Yet another day passes in which I must look upon my sweet Clairece and see the pain I caused reflected in her gentle expression.

Would that I could go back and change my decision, but the fear of seeing only hatred and loathing in her eyes stops the words from forming.

I have spent the last four years trying to make up for my monstrous act. In defense of my actions, what defense there can be, the decision to keep the child from my darling wife was based solely on the wish to protect her from further heartache.

I delude myself. I am despicable, but I cannot risk losing her.

Because the next few words were smeared and indecipherable, Clairece chose to read the last two sentences.

The laudanum now clouds my reasoning. After we return from New York, I shall endeavor to tell Clairece the truth. God grant me her forgiveness.

She set the book aside and gazed out the window. Her earlier anger had been replaced by a dull ache around her heart. Recalling his last words to her at the museum, ’forgive me,’
she understood them for what they were. In time, she would put Roger’s betrayal behind her, but the realization she could have lost her child forever, made forgiveness less likely. Only time would tell.

A tap on the door drew her attention. “Enter.”

Mrs. Stedman stepped inside. “I am sorry to disturb you, my lady, but we need your approval on the menus and the food purchases.”

Clairece motioned the housekeeper forward. “I apologize for not attending to these earlier.”

After surveying the long list of items, she glanced up. “Do we have storage room for all this?”

“The root cellar will hold the additional fruits and vegetables and there is room for another barrel or two of flour and a small one of sugar in the larder.”

“What of the meat and poultry?”

“I forget you have not seen the small ice room. Lord Harding installed one at the base of the stairs leading to the cellar. It saves us a considerable amount of time as we don’t have to traipse out to the icehouse daily to replenish the smaller icebox in the kitchen.”

“I would love to see it.” Clairece remembered the constant comings and goings of men delivering ice in Philadelphia.

Mrs. Stedman led the way to the cellar stairs, turning up the gas light within. “Use the hand rail, my lady. These steps can be slippery.”

At the bottom lay the root cellar, filled with shelves and storage bins to accommodate large quantities of fruits and vegetables.

Mrs. Stedman opened another door made of thick wood and lined with metal. “The door is filled with straw, while the walls are insulated with sawdust and covered in tin,” she explained. “Large blocks of ice are stacked at the back over a metal grid to allow the melting ice to drain down and away.”

“What a wonderful idea.” Clairece surveyed the room.

“My lord is inventive and tries to lessen the work where he can.”

“What do the barrels contain?”

“Ale mostly, but some hold wine brought in from France.”

“And the smaller wooden boxes?”

“Butter and cheese. The crocks hold milk, cream, and pickles. Canned jams, jellies, and tomatoes are on the shelves out in the cellar, as well as baskets of eggs and barrels of apples stored in straw.”

Clairece took note of the sides of beef, pork, and lamb hanging on large metal hooks.

The housekeeper followed her gaze. “With the number of people we have to feed, the meat will be used up within two weeks. We’ve sent word to the neighboring farmers and into the village, and as far away as Bath and Bristol, stating we wish to purchase all they can spare. We raise our own chickens, so fresh eggs and poultry are plentiful.”

“Will it be enough?” Clairece asked.

“With the boats from the village bringing in fresh fish, it should be. We buy a few crates twice per week.”

Clairece followed Mrs. Stedman back to the welcoming warmth of the kitchen. Much to the surprise of the staff, Clairece took a seat at the table and began to peruse the menu for the next two days.

“I often sit at the table in the cook-room at Spencer Ranch. I’ve always loved the smells and luscious treats I was given as a child.” Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of her untouched lunch tray.

“Well, my lady, we can’t have you thinkin’ less of the kitchen here, now can we? How about a cup of hot tea and some bread and cheese?” Mildred offered with a smile.

“That sounds lovely.” Clairece handed the sheet containing the menus back to Mrs. Stedman. “What of the supply of wood and coal? With every room occupied, will we have enough? I realize a part of the mansion is heated with hot water radiators, but the boilers still need fuel.”

“We have a large supply of coal,” Mrs. Stedman replied. “His lordship saw to it before the summer ended. After the home woods were cleaned, we have a nice amount of stacked wood.” She frowned. “I should check the icehouse. We brought in sixty wagonloads last winter but we had an unusually warm summer. Our next delivery isn’t for a month yet.”

“Where do we get our ice?” Clairece nibbled on a bite of cheese.

“From Norway, my lady,” Mrs. Stedman explained. “They bring the squares into Southampton. Our delivery is loaded onto a barge and brought up the Estuary to a spot near the village. It takes the men days to haul the ice into the icehouse.”

“We aren’t speaking of the one in the basement, I assume.” Clairece sipped her tea. The warmth of the hot beverage and the food had gone a long way toward restoring her equanimity.

“If you glance out the kitchen window, you’ll notice a small knoll. The door is on the north side. His lordship made the icehouse sixteen feet deep and set a pipe into the bottom to carry any melt out and over to a small stream leading to the estuary. The walls are lined with six inches of brick. After the conical top was added, all but the door was covered with sod. If you didn’t know otherwise, you would perceive only a small rise.”

Clairece carried her cup to the window and peered out. “You’re right. With most of the structure underground, it could easily be missed.”

“Lord Harding’s orders aside, it is wise to have someone accompany you. The door has swung shut on more than one of us, and there is no handle on the inside.” Mrs. Stedman faced Clairece. “Please excuse me, my lady, but I must see to our guest’s accommodations. The footmen are busy carrying in luggage and wood but, if you would like, I’ll show you the icehouse when two of the men are free to escort us.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stedman.” Clairece continued to study the mound as the click of the housekeeper’s heels faded. The knoll couldn’t be more than fifty yards from the kitchen door, and in plain view of the Hall. It seemed a shame to take three people from their duties.

Her decision made, Clairece hurried upstairs to her chambers. She exchanged her slippers for sturdy walking boots, donned her heavy woolen cape, and crept down the servant’s stairs and into the kitchen.

A lamp hung from a hook by the door. After snatching a few matches from a box near the stove, Clairece hefted the lantern and stepped outside.

Reaching the entrance to the icehouse, Clairece set the luminary down and grasped the latch on the door with both hands. The massive ingress eased open on well-oiled hinges. She hoisted the paraffin lamp and crossed the threshold into the cavernous chamber.

Once inside, she struck a match and touched the end to the wick, lowering the glass to protect the flame. A convenient shelf near the door offered a safe location on which to set the lamp.

As Mrs. Stedman described, the walls were brick. Huge blocks of ice filled the middle of the room. A narrow, wooden walkway lined the perimeter, offering easy access to the stored blocks.

At the unmistakable sound of the door clicking shut, Clairece spun and shoved against the heavy aperture. In her desire to investigate, she’d forgotten to block the door. Although she’d once considered the building near the house, it was too far for someone to hear her shouts. She glanced around for something with which to beat on the door and found an ice hook.

Clairece tugged the hood to the woolen cape over her head and shoved her hands inside the pockets. Although cold outside, nothing compared to the bone-chilling, glacial air inside.

She closed her eyes and leaned against the door, fighting back her panic. Anthony would come, but he needed some reason to search in the icehouse. She picked up the heavy metal and swung it against the door.

Chapter 52

Jeremy Stallings watched from an upstairs window as the other men rode off with
Don
Rafael to survey the surrounding area. Since he’d ridden the countryside on two separate occasions, there was something he wanted to do of more import.

He sought the rose salon where he thought to find Anthony’s aunts. As luck would have it, the three ladies—and the woman assigned to care for Lady Clairece—were ensconced in chairs placed near the fire. All were occupied with some kind of needlework.

Stallings entered the room, making certain to step soundly so as not to startle the ladies. They turned, offering smiles of welcome, something he was not used to.

“Detective Stallings, we’ve been waiting for you,” Ruby said. “We would have been disappointed had you missed our little hint.”

Stallings smiled. “So I’ve been maneuvered into coming?”

Ruby laid her needlepoint aside and peered at him over the top of her glasses. “That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. However, as you are a clever young man, we felt you would get around to us at some point. Here,” she patted the seat next to her own.

“We did think it should be sooner, rather than later, considering the happenings around here,” Opal supplied.

“We’re not certain we can help, mind you, but we won’t know until you ask your questions, will we?” Pearl added.

Stallings withdrew the tablet from his inside pocket. Lifting his gaze, he discovered four pairs of eyes fixed on him. He cleared his throat. “If at any time you feel uncomfortable with my questions, I’ll stop.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Opal pronounced. “Ask whatever you wish and we will try and answer.”

“What do you remember of the late Lady Harding’s death?” That he’d surprised them with his question, was undeniable. The three aunts glanced at each other, each giving an almost imperceptible nod.

“I recall the time vividly,” Ruby began. “We were still living at the Abbey, so most of what we know is hearsay. She was a lovely lady, and beautiful. We never understood why she’d married Melville. Such a charming woman could have had her pick of any number of eligible gentlemen. It was rumored her family forced her into it, but she never said.”

Ruby splashed some cream in the bottom of a china cup and poured a rich, dark tea partway up the Wedgewood. Looking expectantly at him, she queried, “Sugar?”

“Just cream, thank you.” He set his book aside and reached for the offering.

“Melville, like all the Wade men, could be . . . difficult.” Ruby sipped at her tea.

“Including Lord Anthony?” Stallings would see how much the ladies knew, and what they were willing to share.

“Detective Stallings.” Ruby raised one delicate brow. “We know, as do you, our dear Anthony is not a true Wade. If we are to help you, you must refrain from asking unnecessary questions.”

He hid a smile. “I beg your pardon, ladies. I do know about Lord Anthony’s paternity.” Elderly these ladies might be, they’d lost none of their astuteness.

Ruby settled back in her chair. “Well, let me see. Sir Henry, our nephew, was the first to hear of her death. He was quite shaken at the news. It seems a maid heard the dear woman’s scream, but there was naught they could do for her.” Ruby set her cup down.

“It must have been a shock to the entire household,” Stallings mused.

“Oh, it was. Melville, the late earl, was the worst of the Wade men. Even so, we were all stunned when he had her buried before Anthony could get home to pay his last respects to his mother.”

Stallings checked his notes. “I believe Gerald Wade was away at the time?”

“Why, no. He was the one who brought the news to the Abbey. He looked like he’d run all the way. His clothes were disheveled and his coat torn where he’d fallen into a hedge. Gerald took the accident badly.”

“Yes,” Opal added. “Locked himself in his room and refused to come out.”

“Did he leave the Abbey at all during that time, perhaps when Lord Anthony came home?”

“No. His reticence was a surprise,” Opal stated.

“Well,” Pearl began slowly, “I did see him outside in the gardens later that night. I couldn’t sleep so I went to get my tatting shuttle. He came in through the French doors and rushed right by me and up the stairs without even noticing me.”

“You never said,” Opal admonished.

“I didn’t think it important, dear. Gerald was always coming and going in the night as young lads will,” Pearl explained.

Stallings cleared his throat. “How often did Sir Gerald go out?”

Pearl’s forehead creased. “At least a couple times a week, sometimes more.”

He slipped the notebook back into his pocket. “I understand Lord Anthony returned to Oxford after his mother’s death.”

“Yes, poor boy. With his mother already buried, he had no reason to stay.” Pearl looked thoughtfully at Stallings. “We didn’t see him again until Melville . . . died.”

“As I recall,” Ruby said, “Gerald was the one who found Melville’s body. It appears he had a closer relationship with Anthony’s father than he did his own. Gerald spent quite a bit of time at the Hall.”

“It was Gerald who stepped in and took care of things until our dear Anthony could return home,” Pearl added. “I remember because I was surprised by Gerald’s actions. He’d never been a thoughtful or responsible lad.”

“How did the late earl die?” Stallings asked.

Instant silence.

“Detective Stallings, you are most welcome to come again. For now, however, we need to retire for a short rest before dinner. You’ll excuse us?” Ruby came to her feet.

He’d been politely dismissed. There was nothing for him to do but bow and leave. He did both.

Anthony glanced at the clock on the mantle. He’d been working for the last four hours with only a short visit from Jason. At a tap on the door, he called, “Enter.”

His butler gave a cursory glance around.

“What is it, Hodges?”

“I thought Lady Harding might be with you, my lord. Her maid is looking for her.”

“Has she checked the Countess’ quarters? She was there when last I saw her.”

“Yes, my lord. Lady Harding has not returned to her chambers.”

“What do you mean,
has not returned
?” Anthony demanded. Tiredness drained from his body, replaced by a sudden tense urgency.

“Mrs. Stedman last saw her ladyship in the kitchen after they viewed the cellar and pantries.”

“How long ago?”

“Perhaps two hours.”

“Has someone checked those places?” His question seemed superfluous but he had to ask.

“Yes, my lord.” Hodges shifted. “Shall I call the staff together and have the Hall searched?”

“Yes, from the basement to the attics.” Anthony ordered. “Include the late Countess’ wing.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Anthony headed for the billiards room, his long legs eating up the distance. He was at a run by the time he crossed the threshold.

“What’s happened, Tony?” James asked, coming to his feet.

“Have any of you seen Clairece?”

“Not since this morning,” Joel said, setting his pool cue aside. “Why do you ask?”

Anthony tried to quell his rising terror. “Clairece is missing. The servants are checking the Hall as we speak.”

Joel came nearer. “How long has it been since my daughter was last seen?”

“Two hours.” Anthony’s gut twisted.

“This place is a veritable fortress. How could this happen?” James shouted, clearly shaken.

“Dammit, I don’t know.” Anthony spun and raced through the door as visions of the slain maid swam through his mind. As he descended the flight of steps, Lucy’s sightless eyes became Clairece’s.

Anthony yelled for Hodges.

The majordomo appeared at the base of the stairs.

“Have they found her?” Anthony demanded.

“No, my lord. Some of the footmen are still searching the attics, but the others have returned with no sign of the countess.”

The servants’ door at the end of the hall swung open and five footmen approached. From their somber expressions, Anthony knew what he would hear.

“My wife?” Anthony managed.

One of the footmen stepped forward. “She is not in the attics.”

Rafael and Philippe strode through the front door. Anthony swung to face them. “Clairece is missing. Gather the men. Search every hut, shack, and hovel, every room in the village, and every inch of the woods until she’s found. I want the docks and boats secured and searched. Nothing leaves until we find her.”

At the touch of a hand on his shoulder, Anthony turned to his friend. “I cannot lose her, James.”

Clairece huddled at the bottom of the icehouse door, the ice hook discarded at her side. Her fingers were numb. The energy to pound the weighty tool against the door had slipped away. She snuggled deeper into the heavy folds of her cape and blew on her fingers.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She would never watch her daughter grow into a young woman, or see Anthony and the others again. She would never feel her husband’s arms around her, or hear the deep rumble of his voice as they made love.

Clairece swiped the tear away and summoned enough energy to heft the apparatus one more time. She swung the hook and heard the satisfying
thud
as it struck the door. Her fingers relaxed and the iron hook fell to the ground.

The door swung open and a man’s figure stood in the entrance, the light behind him casting a halo around his body.

She sighed. “Are you an angel?”

The apparition chuckled. “Far from it, I fear.” The specter swooped and lifted her high against his chest.

She snuggled closer to the sudden warmth offered by her rescuer, and stared into the man’s face. He stilled.

Between chattering teeth, she managed to whisper, “Thank you for saving me.”

His lips twitched. “Life does have its little ironies.”