One Last Promise (Clean and Wholesome Regency Romance): Martha (The Stainton Sisters Book 1)

by Amy Corwin

Perhaps Mrs. Alford didn’t realize that her husband had been murdered.

  As she pushed open the door further, her frown deepened. Or it could very well be that Mrs. Alford knew perfectly well that her husband had been murdered, because she had done the murdering. So naturally, her door would be unlocked. She had nothing to fear from anyone in the manor, except possibly her husband’s vengeful ghost. And since vengeful ghosts had no need to worry about either keys or locks, locking the door was completely unnecessary—not to mention useless.

  Not that Martha believed in ghosts. However, her conscience was capable of haunting her just as unmercifully as a ghost if she’d done anything as dreadful as poison her husband. So if it were Martha, locking her bedchamber door would have been the last thing disturbing her.

  Her wayward train of thought made her feel much less charitable toward the pale-faced widow when she caught sight of her.

  Dressed entirely in black silk, Violet Alford reminded Martha of the somber portrait just outside the bedchamber door. Of course, Mrs. Alford was far prettier than the lady in the painting and much younger. She appeared to be just a year or two older than Martha’s twenty years, if that, and she had lovely, translucent skin that reminded her of the thinnest porcelain teacup, showing just a hint of blue in the depths of the pale white.

  But grief had stolen some of her beauty. The widow’s black silk gown turned her hazel eyes into a muddy brown, and the lustrous sheen of the silk drained away the dark glow of her brown hair. However, to Martha’s surprise, no redness or puffiness encircled her eyes, and her small, straight nose showed no sign of the rawness Martha’s nose always developed when she’d been sobbing.

  Mrs. Alford’s delicate skin should have showed some signs of distress, shouldn’t it? If she was, indeed, distressed.

  As Martha stepped forward onto the thick green and gold rug in the center of the room, Mrs. Alford stood. She blinked, a vacant expression on her face, although her thin fingers twisted a black-edged handkerchief into damp knots.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Alford,” Martha said, coming to a stop a few feet away from where the widow had been sitting near the window. “I am Miss Stainton—Martha Stainton—and I hope you will forgive this intrusion. I was so sorry to hear what happened to your husband.”

  “Miss Martha Stainton?” Violet Alford repeated, staring at her. “Martha Stainton… Oh, yes, of course. We met once, did we not? At church in Ashford? I am sorry, I am so…” Her gaze swept past Martha to the door and finally came to rest on the window on her right.

  Martha stepped closer to place a hand on her forearm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It is no wonder you are distracted. Is there anything—” The muted rattling of china interrupted her.

  A young maid, carrying a large tray covered by a white linen cloth, hurried into the room. She glanced at Mrs. Alford and hastily deposited the tray on the small, square table between the two chairs flanking the window. “Will that be all, Mrs. Alford?”

  The widow stared at her. Although her mouth didn’t hang open, her wide eyes gave the impression of surprise.

  “That is all,” Martha said. “Thank you.”

  The maid curtseyed and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  “I took the liberty of ordering a few cakes and some tea,” Martha explained, whisking off the cloth and setting to work preparing tea for both of them. “You must drink and eat something—I know how difficult it must be.”

  “Oh, yes. Your father…” Mrs. Alford remained where she was, her face smoothing out to assume the now-familiar vacant expression.

  Martha studied her, wanting to shake the small, slender woman to wake her out of her shock. But she knew only too well how devastating grief could be. The numbness was a small mercy. When it wore off, and one had to face the grim truth of the matter, the dull ache of loss would begin.

  “Won’t you sit? You must eat something.” Martha edged around the table and guided Mrs. Alford to her chair, pressing down on her shoulder to encourage her to sit.

  As obedient as a soulless doll, the widow sank onto the seat of her chair. Her glance flickered from the tea tray to the window and fixed sightlessly on the sunshine and sweeping green lawns bordering the gravel drive. “I must apologize.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I cannot seem to think today.”

  “It is no wonder.” Martha placed a few thin slices of a fragrant, lemony cake on a small plate and thrust it into Mrs. Alford’s hand.

  The widow glanced down at the plate as if she had no idea what she was supposed to do with it. She laid the plate gently down on her lap.

  “You must eat,” Martha repeated. She stirred a great deal of sugar into a cup of tea and shoved that into the widow’s hand, as well. “Take a few sips.”

  Finally, Mrs. Alford took a few sips. Despite the excessive sweetness, she continued sipping from the steaming cup, and gradually, a more alert expression sharpened her features. She drained the cup before breaking off a small corner of cake and eating it. A faint hint of rose returned to her pale cheeks as she continued to break off small pieces and eat them.

  “There. That is better, is it not?” Martha asked after draining her own cup of tea.

  Mrs. Alford nodded.

  Martha cleared her throat. “I dislike bothering you at a time like this, but I was hoping you might remember what happened. While it is still fresh in your mind.”

  “What happened?” Mrs. Alford’s hand hovered over her half-empty plate.

  “Last night. When your husband collapsed.”

  Mrs. Alford’s features knotted. The plate on her lap shook, and she took a long, shaky breath before she nodded. “Yes. Gastric fever. Even the doctor—” She broke off to swallow. “There was nothing anyone could do.” Her eyes flashed dark brown. “I am convinced those stupid servants did something. Perhaps there was something on the platter, something they used to clean it—oh, I do not know how any of this could have happened!”

  “Did your husband suffer from stomach ailments?”

  Mrs. Alford shook her head, dislodging one of the brown curls from beneath the black lace cap she wore. “He is very robust—was—so strong. He eats—ate—the most awful things.” She shuddered, her fingers picking at the remaining piece of cake on her plate. “Those preserved eggs of his and other atrocities... I could not do so, but nothing bothers him—bothered him. I cannot understand it.” She choked back a sob. “I cannot understand how he could be gone. What am I to do? I… I do not know what I am to do!”

  Martha leaned forward and took hold of one of Mrs. Alford’s fluttering hands. “Your family—”

  “Family? I have no family. There was just Adrian and now—what am I to do?” Her distress turned her hazel eyes black with pain.

  She could not have killed her husband—there is too much shock and pain in her eyes. Mrs. Alford may not have been crying, but it could only be because she had yet to truly comprehend what had happened.

  Until now.

  Clearly, her door had been unlocked because she was in such deep shock that she failed to perform such a trivial task.

  Part of Martha wondered if Quinton would agree, or if he would see some small sign she had missed, a detail that would make him leap to one of his annoyingly accurate conclusions. She squeezed Mrs. Alford’s hand one last time before she leaned back.

  When her clasp loosened, Mrs. Alford turned her hand to grip Martha’s fingers. She gazed at Martha, her eyes desperately searching her face. She bit her lower lip and her hold on Martha’s hand tightened. “My husband always gave me an allowance—I am nearly down to my last shilling—” She broke off with a sharp sob that she struggled to turn into laughter. “I have no notion of our situation.” Her free hand fluttered briefly over her belly, smoothing the shimmering folds of dark silk.

  “Surely, it will not be difficult to discover how he provided for you.” If Mr. Alford had provided for her. “There must be a man of business, or perhaps a lawyer. You received your allow
ance while he was traveling, did you not?”

  “His partner…” Mrs. Alford’s cheeks paled again. “General Whyting.” She grimaced. “I do not like General Whyting—he is most unsympathetic, and I shall need a more generous sum in a few months.” Her gaze raced over Martha’s face again, and she chewed her lower lip even more vigorously. Then, as if coming to a sudden decision, she leaned forward, imprisoning Martha’s hand between both of hers. Her fingers were icy cold and damp. “When my child is born, I will need more than the paltry sum Mr. Alford apportioned me. General Whyting would never listen—he refused before, even when I begged for a small sum!”

  Martha stared at her. Facts whirled through her mind—facts which she could not assemble into a meaningful whole. Or rather, details she did not want to assemble, because she disliked the picture they formed.

  Mr. Alford had only returned a week ago. Certainly, one would expect the normal marital relations to have occurred, but even with the best of will, Martha could not see how any woman would know if she were with child after only one week. Well, one week and a few days, she corrected herself. Nonetheless, it was too soon for any woman to be sure, was it not?

  And if she were sure, would that not mean that she had been unfaithful to her husband during his long absence?

  “Are you sure you are with child?” Martha asked carefully, keeping what she hoped was a sympathetic expression fixed on her face and praying that there was a simple explanation that didn’t include being unfaithful.

  A grim light flashed through Mrs. Alford’s eyes. She released Martha’s hand and sat back in her chair. Her nervous hands smoothed the silk over her belly again. “I am quite sure.” Her gaze seemed to dare Martha to comment.

  “Your husband—”

  “Would have been pleased when he discovered it. He has always—had always wanted—a son.”

  “It is very soon after his return,” Martha replied slowly, not wanting to make the widow angry, but aware that Mrs. Alford’s condition may have had a direct correlation to her husband’s death.

  Mrs. Alford’s rounded chin rose. “Yes, and I am sorry—I was weak and my husband was gone for a very long time. I needed someone…” Her voice faltered. She lowered her gaze to her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. “The general was so…cold. And I had no one to confide in, to lean on.”

  “You must have had friends?”

  “All my friends—what friends I had when I was a girl—live in Morpeth. That is where I was born—where my home is—was. I know no one here, no one to confide in. You do not understand my situation. I married in London, a few months after I came out, and went to my husband’s home in Hythe. On their journey home, my parents both perished in a terrible accident. I had no friends in Hythe—no one to offer me sympathy. And I could hardly pay social calls under the circumstances—not while I was in mourning. Then Adrian left. I was alone. You have no notion of the loneliness—no one does.” Her shoulders bowed, and her hands twisted in her lap, fingers tearing at her black-edged handkerchief.

  Martha could understand very well the depths of grief and despair Violet Alford must have experienced. First, she’d lost her parents, and then her husband had left for China. She might even have imagined him coming to grief as he traveled, as well, after her parents had lost their lives during their journey home. The fear must have been unbearable.

  Violet had been left in a strange house, in an equally strange town, with no friends or family to comfort her. At least Martha had her sisters. She bit the corner of her mouth. Occasionally, she even had Quinton’s sympathetic ear, when he chose to set aside his cynical air and become human for a few minutes.

  “You were fortunate, then, to find someone sympathetic,” Martha said. “Who—”

  “I will not tell you. There is no point. It is over and done with, and I will not cause him or his wif—I will not cause him any further distress. He was so kind to me when I desperately needed a friend—I will not betray him.”

  Nonetheless, Martha had caught Mrs. Alford’s slip.

  Her paramour had been a married man. Interesting. Perhaps there was another way of discovering who had comforted Mrs. Alford while her husband was in China.

  “How did you meet him?”

  “A supper party.” Mrs. Alford waved her hand. “The general and his wife thought it would be a kindness to invite me.” She laughed sharply, bitterly. “And I suppose it was, for I met him there. We were all guests of the general. We stayed for a few weeks. It was—” She broke off with a sigh. “It was the first pleasant time that I can remember after so many months of darkness.”

  At least that eliminated the reportedly heartless General Whyting, taking advantage of his partner’s absence. The man in question had been one of the general’s guests.

  Mrs. Alford rubbed her forehead again and stood. “I am sorry, but I am very tired.”

  “Shall I ring for the maid to remove the tray?” Martha asked, quickly rising.

  “No—leave it. I—well, thank you for your kindness.”

  “I hope you will consider me your friend, Mrs. Alford, and send for me if you need anything.”

  “Please—call me Violet.” She gave a sad laugh. “You know all my secrets, so you may as well use my given name.”

  “If you would use mine, as well, I would be honored. Please call me Martha.” She gave Violet a hug. “And I do not gossip, so don’t worry. No one will learn anything from me.”

  “Everyone will know my secrets in a few months.” Violet shrugged. “So it hardly matters.”

  “It always matters, and I hope you will visit us before you leave,” Martha said. She stepped toward the door and then stopped. “And you should eat a few more of those cakes before they go stale. They are exceptional.”

  Her remark brought a faint smile to Violet’s mouth. She nodded. “You need not fear for me.” She smoothed her gown over her flat belly. “I will not starve myself when there are such delicious treats in the offing.”

  Martha nodded and left, closing the door gently behind her. Thinking over Violet’s comments, Martha wondered if Mr. Alford’s death really could be attributed to something as simple as a servant carelessly leaving some noxious cleaning substance on the plate.

  Unfortunately, as attractive as that alternative was, it seemed very unlikely. Even the worst servant wouldn’t leave more than a trace of a cleaning substance on the platter, and there was simply too much present in the sample Martha had tested. Further consideration made her realize that there was nothing used in cleaning that had such a high percentage of antimony and arsenic, anyway. The poison had been deliberately introduced. It had to have been.

  She glanced up and down the hallway. How could she possibly speak to all of the ladies in one afternoon? Lady Branscombe, Maud Trussell, Diane Whyting, Gertrude Frethorne, and Lady Honore. She grimaced over the last one. Quinton had already spoken to Lady Honore, so perhaps she could leave her last or not speak to her at all.

  As she was dithering over her next interview, a door further down the hallway to her left opened. It was almost the last door, and a beam of sunlight streamed out of it, highlighting the woman, clad in a very fashionable but demure gray gown with huge gigot or leg-of-mutton sleeves, a tight-fitting bodice, belt, and wide skirts. Martha glanced down at her own serviceable brown walking dress and felt even more dowdy than usual.

  She pushed her eyeglasses into place on the bridge of her nose and straightened. No one ever said Martha was a beauty, so she had no reason to be jealous of another woman’s lovely day dress. Such a gown would only highlight Martha’s plainness.

  Stepping forward, she raised her hand. “Lady Branscombe! I was hoping to see you.”

  Lady Branscombe’s brown eyes flickered to the closed door behind Martha. “I was just coming to check on Mrs. Alford.” She held her hands clasped loosely at her waist, resting against the bright silver of her rectangular belt buckle. An air of calm watchfulness surrounded her that made Martha feel gauche and self-conscious.<
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  She shifted from one foot to the other. “We had tea and some of your cook’s delicious cakes. I must apologize—I should have spoken to you first, of course.”

  “Yes, well…” Lady Branscombe let her cool words waft through the air between them, highlighting Martha’s rude behavior in not visiting the mistress of the house before any of her guests. “Then I suppose there is no need to intrude on her privacy again.”

  “No.” Martha flushed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she pushed her glasses up her nose again with her forefinger. “I suppose not. Would you have a moment?”

  “A moment?” Lady Branscombe frowned. “I understood from Rathbone that Lord Ashbourne is here, and I wished to speak with him.” She took a few brisk steps forward, as if to pass Martha and descend to the ground floor.

  “Yes, I spoke to him earlier.” Martha caught at Lady Branscombe’s wide, puffy sleeve. “He mentioned your concerns about the tragedy—I was so sorry to learn of it.”

  “He mentioned it? To you?” Lady Branscombe’s dark brows furrowed even more tightly.

  “Yes. I am assisting him. He felt it would be helpful if I could speak to the ladies.”

  “You are helping him in his inquiries?” Her expressive brows rose in disbelief above her brown eyes.

  “As far as I am able to do so,” Martha replied, modestly staring down at the polished oak planks of the floor. While she would have liked to point out that Quinton’s inquiries relied a great deal upon Martha’s own skills in the laboratory, she knew that information would hardly be helpful and might actually annoy Lady Branscombe enough for her to order Martha to leave.

  “Very well. I suppose you are aware of my concerns.”

  “Lord Ashbourne mentioned something…” Martha looked at her quizzically to elicit more of an explanation for Lady Branscombe’s concerns.

  Lady Branscombe nodded. “Would you care to join me in my drawing room? It adjoins my bedchamber, just down the hall a few steps.” Without waiting for Martha’s reply, she turned around to stride back down the hallway.