When Falcons Fall (21 page)

T
he letter was yellowed with age and worn, as if its recipient had pored over it again and again in search of an elusive clue that might bring understanding—or at least some sort of comfort.

Sarah Hanson slipped the folded pages from between the leaves of a Bible that rested on the table beside a comfortably worn chair in the Hansons’ private parlor. She fingered it a moment, as if reluctant to have Sebastian read it, lest he harshly judge one who’d been so dear to her. “Remember: She was very young when she wrote it,” she said, finally holding it out to him. “Just sixteen.”

Lady Emily’s handwriting had been graceful and delicate, her enthusiasm for her first grown-up house party readily obvious in the letter’s numerous underlinings and exclamation points.

My dear, dear Miss Rice,

Oh, I am so
glad
Mama was convinced by the lure of Lord Stone’s presence to allow me to come to Maplethorpe, for I am having the most marvelous time!

Thankfully, Lord Stone has shown not the slightest interest in me. I hear he prefers his women “mature and experienced”—no innocents need apply!—which suits me just fine. (Do you think if I tell Mama, she will abandon her matchmaking schemes? Or will she simply blame me for not putting myself forward enough?) His lordship and his companions are out most of the day shooting, and when they do return to the house, their attention is consumed by the billiards table, the contents of Mr. Irving’s extensive cellars, and some foul-smelling things I’m told are called cheroots. Fortunately, the same cannot be said of most of the other gentlemen present, so it is only during the day that we ladies are forced to amuse ourselves with our needlework and reading and letter writing, or rambling walks through the countryside and to the village.

I already wrote Mother and Father about my fellow houseguests, so shall I tell you instead of the village? There are several of what Mama calls the “better sort” of families in the neighborhood. The gentlemen have been invited to join the houseguests in their shooting and they also come in the evening with their wives to dinner. From the Grange comes Squire Rawlins and his quiet little mouse of a wife. The Squire is like a character out of Chaucer—large, gruff, loud, opinionated, and so addicted to snuff he is always liberally dusted with the stuff. He is even older than Lord Stone and interested in nothing beyond his horses and his hounds and his port—oh, and his land and herds, of course. He told me to my face he has no patience for struggling to make conversation with some chit barely out of the schoolroom! How I feel for his wife, for she is not much older than I.

Far more congenial is Lord Seaton of Northcott Abbey, a fine estate that lies to the west of Ayleswick. His lordship also has a wife, although they say she is increasing and ill as a result, so she seldom goes into company these days. Liv tells me there are
whispers
about his lordship, if you know what I mean. And I must say his behavior does seem to bear them out, for he has been quite marked in his attentions to me, and he is so handsome and charming that my head would surely be turned were it not for Liv’s warnings.

There is also a Major Weston, who is a frequent guest at Maplethorpe. He is quite gallant and likeable, although Lady Dalton bestirred herself from her flirtation with one of Lord Stone’s cronies long enough to warn me he is utterly without fortune and must make his own way in the world. He is related to Lord Weston of Somersfield Park, but while that must obviously make him attractive to Mrs. Irving (Liv tells me her mama is
most
anxious for her to make some noble connection), I know my own mama would take to her bed for a week were she to learn that her daughter had so much as
smiled
at a mere major. And if she were to hear about the brooding and romantically dashing young man down at the Ship! Well, I do believe she would suffer an apoplexy. But not to worry, my dear Rice, for I am mindful always of what is owed my house, and am content merely to attempt to capture
that
young man’s likeness in my sketchbook. If only my humble talents were equal to the challenge!

On Sunday, those of us who were astir trooped down to the village for church services. I wish you had been there so that I might have heard your opinion of the local vicar, one Reverend Benedict Underwood. He is only recently ordained—I believe the living was a gift from some uncle. His sermon on Galatians 5:19–21 was both thought provoking and scholarly (although I fear it sailed over the heads of the vast majority of his parishioners!). But I found his delivery most peculiar, for he reminded me of a thespian on a stage—quite self-consciously dramatic and so very proud. He is an attractive man for a vicar (if you like that look; I do not), although not, surely, quite as handsome as he believes himself to be. I told him in all sincerity how much I enjoyed his sermon and was tempted to add that I would love to hear him expound on 1 Samuel 16:17. But I was a good girl and held my tongue!

It was while we were still on the porch that a strange lout of a boy from the village—Reuben Dickie is his name—tried to chase a billy goat right into the church! They claim he is harmless—“half-soaked and yampy,” as they say here in Shropshire. His brother soon put a stop to the lad’s antics, with the assistance of Samuel Atwater, Northcott’s strangely solemn steward. But as they led Reuben away, he threw me
such
a look over his shoulder that I’ve quite made up my mind to avoid the village from now on.

But never fear, my dear Miss Rice, for I am having a marvelous time. I can’t wait until next February, when we go to London! And now I must dash off, for Mrs. Irving has got up an expedition to Northcott Gorge, which is said to be quite lovely and haunted by the ghosts of two star-crossed medieval lovers. I will write more later.

Your devoted pupil,

Emily

Sebastian was silent for a moment, caught by the pathos of the long-dead girl’s joyous enthusiasms. He folded the letter and handed it back to the former governess.

“She never wrote again?”

Sarah Hanson tucked the letter back into the book. “No. She came home three days later. I knew the instant I saw her that something dreadful must have occurred, but she refused to speak of it. I didn’t learn the truth for another two months.”

“When she realized she was with child?”

She nodded. “She was forced. Although I’m afraid Lady Turnstall refused to believe her. Insisted that if Emily hadn’t given herself willingly, then she must have done something to make the man think she would welcome his advances.”

“She never named the father?”

“No. All she would say was that he was one of the men she had written me about, and that marriage to him was impossible. Once—after the child was born—I heard her whisper to the baby that she had her father’s hair. But that was the only hint she ever gave.”

“So the father was dark.”

“Yes.”

Sebastian thought of the men named in the letter. He understood, now, the origins of the list they’d found in Emma Chandler’s room. Of all the men mentioned in her mother’s letter, only Lord Stone had been missing from Emma’s list. But then Stone—nearly sixty now and riddled with syphilis—was famous for his full head of bright ginger hair.

“What happened when Lady Turnstall discovered her daughter was with child?” Sebastian asked.

“She sent her away. I had a cousin living in reduced circumstances in a large house in Barmouth, overlooking the estuary, and she was happy enough to have us come stay with her. Lady Emily was introduced to the neighborhood as the tragic young widow of a major recently killed in the American colonies.”

“A useful fiction,” said Sebastian. And borrowed by Lady Emily’s daughter herself decades later, although for a slightly different reason.

“The child came dreadfully early,” said the former governess, going to stand at the window overlooking the village high street. “She was so small and weak, I thought sure she would die. But she didn’t. Most women in her situation would have hated the product of such a conception, but Emily was besotted with the infant from the moment she first held her. She was desperate to keep her.”

“The Turnstalls refused?”

“How could they do otherwise? I tried to reason with her, but Emily remained hopeful she could bring them around. Then, one morning in late August, we went for a walk along the estuary. It came on to rain not long after we left, so we turned back toward the house. A carriage was just pulling away from the gate as we came up. The instant she saw it, Emily started to run. Somehow she knew what was happening, even before we saw the face of her father’s solicitor in the window. She screamed and begged for them to stop, but the coachman only whipped up his horses faster. She ran after the carriage until she could run no farther. Then she simply collapsed in the middle of the road, sobbing.”

Sebastian watched the former governess swallow hard, her hands clenching around the edge of the windowsill before her. He remained silent, waiting until she was able to continue.

“She lay there for what seemed like forever, curled in a ball, hugging herself, while the rain poured down around us. I kept saying, ‘Lady Emily; you must get up. You’ll catch your death.’ Finally she looked at me and said, ‘You think I care?’”

“She took sick?”

“It didn’t seem so at first. I finally persuaded her to let me help her inside. Then she went wild—demanded we return at once to Pleasant Place so that she could confront her father. We left for home that very day. I never knew precisely what passed between them, but I believe she threatened to shame the family and destroy her own reputation by taking out an advertisement in all the London papers proclaiming the child’s birth—and abduction—to the world.”

“Would she have done it?”

“For the sake of the child? Oh, yes. And her father knew it. In the end, they reached a kind of compromise. She agreed to give up the child and keep its birth a secret, and he gave his word that the child would be educated and eventually inherit half of Lady Emily’s dowry—or all of it, should she never marry.”

“So what happened to her?”

“That very night, after her interminable meeting with her father, she collapsed with a raging fever and putrid sore throat. She was dead in a week.”

“Yet he kept his word?”

“He did, yes. There was much not to like about the Second Earl. But he was a man of his word. He genuinely loved his daughter—and mourned her death. He set things up so that even in the event of his own death, his solicitors would see that the child was sent to school at the age of seven, and that her inheritance would be safe from his son, Albert.”

“When did he die?”

“Four years later.”

“The new Lord Heyworth knew of the arrangements?”

“I assume he was told as soon as he came of age, although I can’t say for certain. The truth is, I’ve had little contact with his lordship since Emily’s death. Will asked me to marry him right after the funeral.” Sarah Hanson gave a short, sharp laugh. “Lady Heyworth was beyond horrified when I accepted. She actually tried to forbid me to do any such thing. After all, what would people think when they learned that her children had been taught by the local innkeeper’s wife?”

Sebastian smiled, “What, indeed?” He studied the former governess’s plump, good-natured face. Sarah Hanson might be both better educated and considerably better bred than her innkeeper husband, but the truth was, she’d been extraordinarily lucky to marry him. Most impoverished, aging gentlewomen lived out their lonely lives in fear and want.

Sebastian said, “Did Emma Chandler know who you were when she came here?”

“No. In fact, she registered under the name Emma Chance. But I knew who she was the instant I set eyes on her. She was so very much like her mother—only darker haired, of course.”

“Did you tell her you recognized her as Lady Emily’s daughter?”

“Not at first, no. I was tempted. But it didn’t seem right, putting myself forward like that. She hired Richard to drive her out to Pleasant Park the next morning. She told me later that she knew nothing about Lady Emily; all she knew was that the Turnstalls had been paying her fees at Miss LaMont’s Academy.”

“Did she give her name as Emma Chance when she went out to Pleasant Park?”

“She did, yes. I think she was afraid they’d refuse to see her if she identified herself to the staff as Emma Chandler. And she was right. It was the Dowager who met with her. As soon as Emma told her ladyship her real name, Lady Heyworth flew into a shaking rage. Called the poor girl a brazen, lying hussy and set up such a fuss that the Earl himself came on the run. It was Heyworth who told Emma he’d call the constables if she ever dared show herself near the estate again.”

“Charming.”

Sarah Hanson’s nostrils flared on a deeply indrawn breath. But all she said was, “Alfred Turnstall is very much his mother’s son.”

“Why was Emma given the name Chandler? Do you know?”

“Chandler was the name of the farm family that fostered her for the first seven years. She told me they were very kind to her. She had no idea Molly Chandler wasn’t her mother until one day when a solicitor from Ludlow arrived to carry her off to Miss LaMont’s Academy.” Her voice hardened. “It was such a cruel, heartless thing to do.”

“Yes,” said Sebastian.

It explained how the Turnstalls had known the reason for Sebastian’s arrival. Even if they hadn’t been closely following events in the papers, they would know that “Emma Chance” was really Emma Chandler. And with all the talk generated in the region by the Ayleswick murders, they would also know that Sebastian was investigating her death.

“When Emma came back from the park,” Sarah Hanson was saying, “she was devastated—both because of the way they’d treated her and because they’d refused to tell her what she was so desperate to know.”

“You mean, the names of her mother and father?”

“Yes. She broke down crying on the stairs up to her room.”

“And that’s when you told her what you knew and showed her the letter?”

“Yes.” Sarah Hanson turned to look at him, her face stricken. “I wish to God I hadn’t. It’s why she went to Ayleswick, isn’t it? She was trying to figure out who her father was. She went there, and now she’s dead.”