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

by Amy Corwin

With a sigh, Martha hurried after her.

  The small drawing room was situated in the corner of the manor, and wide windows on two sides presented views of a small terrace below and the gardens beyond. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windows, glittering off delicate gilt-edged chairs clustered in small, comfortable groups around the charming room. A yellow silk chaise lounge was situated near the windows, with a small table beside it, and above the pale maple wainscoting was wallpaper patterned with spring green, golden, and rose-colored flowers. The room was lovely, but as Martha glanced around, she realized it also had the cool feel of a room seldom used. There were no signs of occupancy; no books, magazines, or sewing anywhere to be seen.

  Perhaps Lady Branscombe preferred one of the other rooms and only used this one for more formal visits. The thought made Martha’s shoulders tighten, and she once again pushed her glasses up against the bridge of her nose.

  Waving to the chairs flanking the chaise lounge, Lady Branscombe waited for Martha to take a seat before she sat, arranging her voluminous skirts around her. “What did you wish to know, Miss Stainton?”

  “Martha, please.”

  Lady Branscombe nodded, but failed to offer her first name.

  A wave of warmth rushed up Martha’s cheeks, but she smiled with determination and took a deep breath. With a flash of inspiration, she avoided what must certainly be the expected question and asked instead, “Did you and your husband attend many suppers with General Whyting and his wife while Mr. Alford was traveling?”

  Blinking, Lady Branscombe straightened. “Yes, I suppose so. Why do you ask?”

  “I understand that Mrs. Alford lost her parents shortly after her marriage. I don’t suppose you remember if she ever attended any of the general’s suppers?”

  “Of course I remember,” Lady Branscombe said, an exasperated tone creeping into her voice. “In fact, I remember when we met Mrs. Alford, the poor little thing. It must have been the first time she had accepted such an invitation—it was only six months or so after the tragedy that took her parents.”

  Martha leaned forward, her pulse quickening. “Do you remember who else attended?”

  “Who else?” Puzzlement creased Lady Branscombe’s brow. She looked past Martha’s shoulder thoughtfully. “Why, many of the same people who are here, now, I believe. Yes.” She nodded and fixed her gaze on Martha with the confidence of an excellent memory. “The general and his wife, of course—they were exceptionally kind and gracious to poor little Violet—Mrs. Alford, that is. And the Trussells were there, as well, as I recall.”

  “Was anyone particularly kind to Violet? She mentioned that she was exceedingly grateful to everyone, of course, but do you remember if she spent more time with a particular person after that supper?”

  “No.” Lady Branscombe’s nose wrinkled in thought as her right thumb rubbed over the left one’s knuckle where her hands rested in her lap. “We were all pleased to see her, and I rather took her under my wing. She seemed so young and lost, you see. I felt sorry for her.” She blinked rapidly and sniffed. “And now this—it is simply beyond comprehension. I cannot understand any of this. Has Lord Ashbourne said anything to you concerning this new tragedy?”

  “We are still trying to understand the sequence of events.” Martha took a deep breath. “You and your husband were with her a great deal of the time, then? At the general’s supper?”

  “Yes.” Lady Branscombe smiled, her brown eyes warming and a flush tinging her cheeks a delicate pink. She looked as lovely as a young girl under the spell of her first, heady flush of love. “My husband is such a kind man… Did you know that poor girl had never even ridden a horse before? Sir Horace spent, oh, I don’t know how many hours, with her, teaching her to ride one of the general’s ponies. It took her mind off the loss of her parents and the absence of her husband, he said. Horseback riding is so bracing, is it not? I cannot imagine what I would do if I could not ride every day.”

  “Yes,” Martha replied. She’d only been on horseback a few times in her life, and the excursions had not been successful ones, even though the horse was an old nag they’d borrowed from Farmer Cavell. So she was more inclined to believe that riding was more uncomfortable than invigorating. “You are very fortunate to have such a thoughtful husband.”

  “Indeed. So you can imagine why I am so concerned about this misadventure.” Hands braced on her lap, she leaned forward, golden flecks glinting in her eyes. “I am convinced someone did it deliberately—and poor Violet—she is left with no one now.” She straightened abruptly and smoothed her skirts with fluttering hands.

  “What made you so sure? Did someone threaten Mr. Alford?”

  “He was partners with the general. Business partners always have cause for arguments, do they not?” Lady Branscombe flushed, her thumbs rubbing over each other more vigorously, but she didn’t retract her statement.

  “So you believe the general is responsible?”

  “Who else would have a reason? He might have killed anyone! After all, military men are not afraid of death—they cannot be. It makes me frantic with fear. We all ate and drank from the same dishes, any of us might have perished. Whoever did this did not care in the least if anyone else perished. My own husband might have died!” Lady Branscombe leapt out of her chair and paced around it, her hand running along the chair back. She circled twice before she took a long, shuddering breath and reseated herself. “I am sorry, but the thought distresses me.”

  “I can well imagine,” Martha said. “Why did you ask Lord Ashbourne to make inquiries?”

  “He is accounted to be very intelligent,” she replied vaguely, lifting a hand in a dismissive gesture. “And I would not have suspicion fall on my husband—not when he could very well have been the victim, himself!”

  “Why would anyone suspect Sir Horace?” Because he gave Violet riding lessons? a small voice suggested. Martha shifted in her seat, her gaze fixed on Lady Branscombe’s face.

  Lady Branscombe’s forehead wrinkled as her brows drew together thoughtfully. “It was our supper party, was it not? We knew who would attend and who would not.” Her mouth tightened. “It would be quite natural if someone placed the blame on Sir Horace. As a magistrate, you may well imagine that there are those who would like to see his name sullied, no matter how honestly and justly he has performed his duties.”

  “Don’t you believe it would be somewhat excessive for someone with a grudge to poison one of your guests, simply for the sake of revenge over some imagined injustice?”

  Crimson spots flashed over Lady Branscombe’s cheeks. She raised her chin, her eyes sharp and hard on Martha’s face. “Can anyone truly claim to understand the mind of a murderer? What acts he may or may not commit?”

  “He?”

  “Or she! Poisoners are often women, I am told.”

  “However, you are inclined to believe it was a man?”

  “I have no inclinations one way or the other. That is why I asked my husband to request Lord Ashbourne’s assistance. I want the matter settled quickly and fairly, with no question of partiality or corruption.”

  “You want to protect your husband.”

  “Of course, I do! Is that so surprising? I will not have this taint his reputation. He has always performed his duties fairly and impartially—he is a good man and too kind for his own good.” She laughed bitterly and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers as if to stop the flow of tears. “He believes I am being ridiculous—hysterical. But he does not realize how fragile a man’s reputation can be. He believes everyone has a good soul, despite everything he has seen and heard in his court. He does not realize how easy it is to be betrayed by those one thought were friends, or how devastating a few whispered words of gossip may be.”

  Martha studied Lady Branscombe’s over-bright eyes and flushed, emotion-ravaged features. Sometime in the past, her trust had been cruelly betrayed, and the pain remained, eating at her and darkening her gaze.

  Leaning forwa
rd, Martha touched her white-knuckled, clasped hands. “I am sure Lord Ashbourne will do his best—you need not regret asking for his assistance. But is there anything else you remember that may help him?”

  Lady Branscombe shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.

  “Then I will leave you in peace.” Martha rose and stepped toward the door. “If you do recall anything, please send word.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Branscomb stood and escorted Martha into the hallway. “Will you speak to Mrs. Whyting or Mrs. Trussell?”

  “Yes. And Mrs. Frethorne, if she is available.”

  Lady Branscombe’s pale skin tightened over her features, and her lips pulled inward as if she were biting them together. Then her shoulders straightened. “You will get little sense from Mrs. Whyting, though she was seated on Mr. Alford’s left at supper. She is as featherbrained as any hen following her rooster about the yard and about as nonsensical.”

  “What of Mrs. Frethorne? She was seated next to Mr. Alford when he grew ill.”

  “And was quite hysterical as a result. Dr. Meek had to force her to swallow one of his potions. I do not know if she has yet to recover.”

  So Mr. Alford had a featherbrained hen on one side and an hysteric on the other when he succumbed to poison. A more cynical woman might conclude that both idiocy and hysteria were excellent masks to hide behind, if one were intent on poisoning a man. With even more cynicism, Martha wondered if her suspicious thoughts meant that she was spending far too much time around Quinton.

  She sighed and glanced at the closed door down the hallway a few yards. It felt as if the critical gazes of all the Branscombes in the portraits along the shadowed hallway were examining her as she contemplated who might be the least irritating woman to question.

  “Maud—Mrs. Trussell is very sensible. If you wish to question her, you may do so now. I understand she and her husband were planning to depart early tomorrow morning.” Lady Branscombe gestured to the door a few yards from her own. “She was seated opposite Mr. Alford.” Her brows rose. “She might have noticed something…”

  Martha nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate your assistance, Lady Branscombe. This must be a terrible strain.”

  “Yes, well, we can only hope for a swift conclusion.” Hands folded at her waist, Lady Branscombe stepped back and waited for Martha to knock on Mrs. Trussell’s door.

  Self-conscious, Martha did so, throwing a half-smile over her shoulder to her hostess. The sounds of firm footsteps and creaking floor carried through the door before it was pulled open.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Trussell asked, standing precisely in the center of the doorway.

  Martha stared for a moment, feeling startled, even though she had heard the footsteps approaching the door.

  Everything about Mrs. Trussell seemed narrow and precise. Her thin, straight nose sliced her broad-cheeked face in half, the narrowness of her nose in her wide face giving her a pinched, disapproving appearance, even though her full lower lip tried in vain to deny this. While some might think her crisp features pretty, Martha felt put off and wary. There was something very unforgiving in Mrs. Trussell’s rigid back, long neck, and proudly held head.

  Her black hair, threaded with silver at the temples, was brushed smoothly up and twisted into a braided coronet, making her broad cheeks appear even wider and her nose even thinner by contrast. Nonetheless, the years had treated her kindly, and her skin was smooth except for a few fine lines around her eyes, which betrayed her age to be nearing forty.

  Despite the recent tragedy, Mrs. Trussell wore a day dress printed in a floral pattern of rich blues, yellows, and greens, with a wide, bright gold buckle at the trim waist. Large, off-the-shoulder sleeves puffed out, layered with lovely lace trim before they tightened just above the elbow, encasing her forearms down to the lace-edged cuffs. The gown was beautiful and flattered Mrs. Trussell, but hardly seemed appropriate, given the circumstances.

  “Well?” Mrs. Trussell’s gaze flicked from Martha to Lady Branscombe.

  “This is Miss Stainton—” Lady Branscombe began before Mrs. Trussell cut her off.

  “Yes, we have met.” Mrs. Trussell gave Martha a sharp nod. “You must excuse me, I was busy packing—you cannot trust these maids to take the proper care, and I will not have my gowns wrinkled and ruined.” Her right hand moved to smooth an imaginary crease from the skirt of her gown.

  “I am sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping you might be able to assist me,” Martha said.

  Lady Branscombe stepped closer. “Miss Stainton is helping us determine what happened the other night.”

  “What happened the other night? At supper?” Mrs. Trussell’s broad forehead wrinkled. “Mr. Alford had gastric fever—Dr. Meek confirmed that, I believe. It was a tragedy, but hardly cause for all this upset.”

  Startled again, Martha stared at her. Hardly cause for upset? If death wasn’t cause for upset, then what was?

  “There is some question…” Lady Branscombe said, her voice trailing off. She patted Martha on the shoulder and turned away, gliding unhelpfully back to her room and shutting the door.

  Martha took a deep breath and stepped closer to Mrs. Trussell’s door. Her movement induced Mrs. Trussell to back away a few feet, allowing Martha to slip inside. “I apologize for disturbing you, Mrs. Trussell, but if you don’t mind, I would like a word. It would be of great assistance.”

  “I don’t see how,” Mrs. Trussell replied unhelpfully. She turned away and picked up a nightdress, which she folded meticulously and placed into a large round travel chest resting on the floor at the foot of her bed.

  “You were seated across from Mr. Alford when he became ill, were you not?”

  “Yes, though you must understand that there was a candelabra, a tiered tray of fruits, and several other objects spread out on the table, so my view of him was, thankfully, limited.”

  “You did not care for Mr. Alford?”

  “I never care to see illness, Miss Stainford—”

  “Stainton,” Martha corrected.

  “And it is particularly distressing when it occurs at the table, as you can well imagine.”

  “Indeed.” Taking a deep breath, Martha forced a polite, hopeful smile. “What was your impression of Mr. Alford when he arrived?”

  “He seemed well enough, and very good humored. I could see no sign of ill-health, but then I am not a physician, and I am not one of those women forever fawning over these handsome young men.”

  “Then you thought Mr. Alford was handsome?”

  “He is accounted to be. By some.” Her brows drew down. “Or was, at any rate.”

  “By some of the other women attending the supper?”

  Mrs. Trussell shrugged and folded another gown into a precise square before placing it in her trunk. “I do not take notice of what others may do.”

  “Did you take any notice of what the ladies did who were seated on either side of Mr. Alford at supper?”

  Eyes flashing, Mrs. Trussell straightened and stared at Martha. “There was a great deal of light conversation and laughter, Miss Stainford—”

  “Stainton.”

  “As one might imagine at such a supper. The servants served us—if you have a question concerning what might have made Mr. Alford ill, you should speak to them. You cannot trust the help—perhaps one of the footmen felt slighted or did not receive a sufficient gratuity—who is to say? I did not see anything untoward, and as far as I know, we were all served from the same dishes.”

  Struggling for a moment to control her temper, Martha clasped her hands and then deliberately unclenched them. “Did you know the Alfords well?”

  “I knew Mrs. Alford slightly. We met her frequently at the general’s home, and of course here. Sir Horace and his wife were exceptionally kind to her while her husband was traveling.” The corner of her mouth tightened in disapproval, presumably at the thought of Alford’s abandonment of his new wife for over a year and not at Sir Horace’s kindness. “I felt sorry f
or her—we all did.” Her expression actually softened for a moment, making her seem far more sympathetic and human. “The last two years have been very difficult for poor Violet.”

  Tempting though it was to think that Mrs. Trussell might have poisoned Mr. Alford for his thoughtless treatment of his wife, Martha simply couldn’t imagine the woman murdering anyone for such a paltry reason. She seemed far more likely to be the type to chastise a person to death.

  “Can you think of any reason why someone might want to harm Mr. Alford?”

  “Harm him?” Mrs. Trussell’s eyebrows rose. “No. Why should they? He has been gone for nearly two years. I do not see how anyone could possibly wish to harm someone they haven’t seen for so long.”

  “I suppose not.” Silence drifted between them. Despite her curiosity, Martha couldn’t think of anything to ask. “Well, thank you for your assistance. If you recall anything, I hope you will send me word.”

  “You believe, then, that it was not gastric fever?”

  “He was poisoned,” Martha replied bluntly, her hand on the doorknob.

  “Poisoned?” Mrs. Trussell laughed. “I cannot imagine how. No, you must be mistaken.” She shook her head and picked up another gown. “Dr. Meek diagnosed gastric fever. You cannot allow your imagination to run away with you, my dear Mrs. Stainford.”

  Martha opened her mouth to correct her once more, but clamped it shut again and shook her head. There was no point in upsetting the woman, particularly when Martha was sure that Mrs. Trussell knew her name quite well and was simply mispronouncing it and giving her the wrong title to annoy her.

  “Of course not. Good day, Mrs. Trussell.” Martha avoided the strong urge to mangle Mrs. Trussell’s last name and left her to her packing.

  Standing in the hallway once more, Martha was conscious of a feeling of weariness. Her shoulders ached with tension, and she shrugged them, seeking relief. All she wanted to do was to walk down to the road, climb into Farmer Cavell’s cart, and return home to sit on their sagging settee and sip tea in front of the fire. However, even if she returned home, she still had work in front of her. She had yet to determine which of the samples had been the source of the poison Mr. Alford had ingested.