“Longer perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Draycott, “for the roads are despicable at present.”
“Worse yet,” his mother complained. “How shall we do without you?”
“I will leave you in George’s capable hands. And Mrs. Draycott will doubtless have enough to do in questioning the household.”
“What of the household? With no one to direct them, the servants will be at sixes and sevens at a time like this.”
“I have no choice, Mama. It is not a task one can leave to a stranger, when all is said and done.”
His mother’s dissatisfaction was plain. Francis felt oppressed. It was not as if he desired to go upon the errand. Left to himself, he would infinitely prefer to remain in London and do what he might to scotch the coming scandal, besides unravelling the mystery of last night’s hideous events. His eyes strayed towards Mrs. Draycott. Not that he supposed she could offer any palliative to alleviate his troubles. He caught her glance and her warm smile appeared.
“I wonder, my lord, if it might answer for Lady Polbrook and myself to take up residence here—temporarily, I need hardly say.”
The notion was anathema. Leave his mother in situ, prey to remembrance and every sort of imagined nightmare? “I hardly think that would serve—”
“An excellent suggestion, Mrs. Draycott,” said his mother, cutting him off. Light entered her face, just as if the horrors of the day had been nonexistent. “You may work uninterrupted upon your investigations, while I supervise the workings of the house.”
“You cannot stay here, ma’am,” Francis protested with vehemence.
“Why not?”
“With all that has occurred in this house in the last few hours, you can ask that? The whole notion is morbid in the extreme.”
“Then the sooner a semblance of normality is restored, my lord,” came the soothing tones of Mrs. Draycott, “the better it will be. And now that the body of the unfortunate deceased has been removed, thanks to the offices of Colonel Tretower—”
“I don’t see what difference that makes,” Francis snapped. “It is still morbid.”
“But it is not a matter of wishing to be here, sir. It is pure expediency.”
“True, but it is the last place I could wish my mother to be at such a time.”
“On the contrary, it is just where I ought to be. It will not be thought odd under the circumstances. And when the news breaks, as it undoubtedly will, I shall be far better suited to be here. I was dreading a positive siege in Bruton Street, but I cannot think the most inveterate scandalmonger will venture to approach this house.”
About to refute his mother’s reasoning in no uncertain terms, Francis paused. “There is something in that, but I cannot like it. George?”
Thus called upon, his friend gave him the singular look of one male to another in a stand against the other sex. “I believe there is little purpose in arguing the point, Fan, if Lady Polbrook has made up her mind.”
“How wise of you, Colonel Tretower,” said the dowager. “I am glad Francis chose to appoint you his deputy.”
Francis threw up his hands. “I am silenced. On your own heads be it. But I might point out that my object in fetching Candia was not to thrust her into misery by placing her where she can only be distressed by memories, not to mention a lively imagination.”
His mother nodded. “I have been thinking about my granddaughter, and you need not fret. I have an excellent solution in mind.”
With the departure of Lord Francis a settled thing, Ottilia found the dowager’s spirits considerably reduced, despite her determination to remove to Hanover Square. Either repugnance of the grisly event was catching up with her, or the prospective absence of her younger son left her bereft in light of the apparent loss of the elder.
Colonel Tretower went off shortly on various missions of his own, including an arrangement for the retrieval of Lord Polbrook’s chariot and horses from Portsmouth, but promised to return upon the morrow to see how they did. Lord Francis accompanied him in his way to the post office to despatch his letters in time for the night mail, and it was left to Ottilia to persuade the dowager to repair to her own house, where her son had promised to sup with them.
“We can do no more here at present, ma’am, and indeed I think you have endured enough for one day.”
At that, the elder lady’s eyes fired up. “There can be no limits to endurance in this extremity.”
“Agreed,” Ottilia said patiently. “But why subject yourself to unnecessary pain? With what lies before you, it will be well to recruit your strength, do you not think?”
A grim smile curved the dowager’s mouth. “Unanswerable. But I will have none of Pellew’s draughts, and so I warn you.”
Ottilia raised her brows. “I was thinking more of hard liquor, ma’am.”
This forced a reluctant laugh from the dowager, and she at last consented to leave Hanover Square. Relieved, Ottilia had the butler call up a hackney, for daylight was fading.
In the event, there was little rest to be had, for the dowager could not remove without imparting a deal of unnecessary instruction to her staff on running the house in her absence and supervising her woman’s packing. Ottilia was glad she’d had no time to unpack her own trunks, for it left her free to think. She took time to sit at the dowager’s writing table and draw up a list of her findings. This exercise left so many questions that she was obliged to list these separately and decide on a plan of action to find means to answer them.
Her employer interrupted her at this work to complain of being hardly used, for Lord Francis had sent a note to say he could not after all join them for supper, which was to be served immediately.
“It is too bad of him, when he knows how hungry I am for news.”
“Perhaps he has none,” said Ottilia pacifically.
“And now I shall not see him at all,” pursued the dowager, ignoring this suggestion, “for he means to be off to Bath at first light.”
“Then he will be back the sooner, ma’am.”
Her employer refused to be mollified. Through the meal, of which the dowager partook sparingly, eating perhaps three mouthfuls from each of the two modest courses, her voice became increasingly querulous, warning Ottilia that shock was at last catching up with her. She abandoned any attempt to bring the dowager to a better frame of mind, instead allowing her to talk herself to a standstill. At which point, Ottilia got up and rang the bell, drawing the elder lady’s instant attention.
“What are you about?”
Ottilia smiled at her. “I think you stand in crying need of a restorative, ma’am. Oh, not the doctor’s remedy, be sure.”
A trace of amusement drove the tetchiness from the dowager’s face. “I daresay I might not refuse a glass of port.”
“Then port it shall be.”
While the dowager drank, Ottilia attempted to divert her mind by talking lightly of everyday things until she saw her employer’s eyelids drooping. Satisfied, she ceased speaking and sat for a while, contemplating the remains of the ruby liquid in her own glass.
Her first day in office and how the world was turned inside out! She had come here expecting a life of tedium, and very likely drudgery. Her brother had deprecated her decision, but Ottilia could not feel content to continue to live on his bounty now that she had no longer any employment by which she might return his kindness. With the boys gone, she had become restless and impatient of life in a country village. Taking the temporary post of companion had been an experiment, if truth be told. Or so she had represented it to Patrick. He had agreed to it only on condition that she would return immediately, should she feel dissatisfied. How he would laugh now, were he to learn how his sister had become embroiled almost instantly in just the imbroglio to tax her ingenuity to the utmost.
Though it was, to be sure, no laughing matter. And her immediate desire to be of assistance had been prompted not by curiosity, but by the very real distress occasioned to the dowager and to her remaining son. What a m
onster she would be to allow them to suffer, if by any effort of hers she could alleviate something of their trouble.
Glancing at the dowager, the marks of anxiety were there even as she dosed. Her features were pallid and drawn, tiny muscles twitched in her cheeks, and the hollows beneath her eyes had darkened a little. Wrung with pity, Ottilia got up quietly and slipped out of the cosy little dining parlour in search of her ladyship’s maid. Miss Venner was better acquainted with her and would know how to persuade her into her bed. For herself, Ottilia was more than ready to get between sheets. The day’s events, coming atop yesterday’s journey, had tired her out.
The morning found her refreshed and ready for action, but although the dowager was lively, she located a number of items left unpacked and had so many additional instructions for her household that it was near noon before a hackney deposited them in Hanover Square.
Mrs. Thriplow, who was even more upset than upon the previous day, Ottilia judged, had been unable to arrange for the new arrivals to be accommodated near together. The dowager, to her immediate chagrin, had been assigned the back room next door to that of the marchioness.
“I’d no choice, my lady,” the housekeeper apologised, sounding harassed, “for you wouldn’t want to be up on the second floor, where I’ve put Mrs. Draycott. And Master Francis is only across the passage, my lady.”
The dowager remained dissatisfied, giving a little shiver as she cast a glance over her shoulder towards the fatal room. “I should prefer to negotiate a second set of stairs than sleep in here behind poor Emily’s bedchamber.”
“That would be ineligible, ma’am,” said Ottilia. “But if you should be nervous, I can very well sleep in a truckle bed alongside you.”
But this her employer would by no means agree to, saying that Venner could very well perform that duty. “At least until Francis returns.”
“I’ll get Abel to fetch one down, my lady, and I’m sorry as the beds ain’t been made yet, but the sheets is still airing and, what with the washerwoman vowing as she’ll never set foot in the house again and the maids having hysterics every time they come within ten foot of my late mistress’s chamber, I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what a set of ninnies,” said the dowager, just as if she had not one moment since expressed much the same sentiment.
Ottilia smothered a laugh and made haste to soothe the housekeeper’s lacerated feelings. “I have every sympathy with you, my dear Mrs. Thriplow. It must be hard indeed for you to keep any semblance of order and direction under these terrible circumstances.”
“Well, it is, ma’am, and I’m that put about over it, for I promised Master Francis as I’d see all went along as normal as possible.”
“To the devil with Master Francis,” stated his fond mother. “Does he have the least notion what it takes to run a household? Of course he has not.”
“That he ain’t, my lady, and no mistake. If it ain’t one thing, it’s another, and if Cook manages to produce a dinner fit to eat, what with young Betsy shrieking like a moonling at every sound and spilling half the fat off the roast all over the kitchen floor so’s no one can’t take a step without slipping in it, I’ll take leave to call the woman a saint!”
This was too much for Ottilia, and she struggled to contain her amusement under the housekeeper’s affronted gaze and the dowager’s stony stare.
“Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Thriplow,” she managed at length, “but I could not withstand the picture you conjured up in my imagination. I’m afraid it is one of my worst faults to be merry at the wrong moment.”
“Well, it’s better than screeching, I suppose,” said the housekeeper, consenting to be mollified.
“Forgive me, pray. And I am sure Cook need not fret over dinner. We will be content, I am persuaded, with the simplest of fare, will we not, ma’am?”
She cast an imploring look upon the dowager as she spoke, and was relieved when her employer rose nobly to the occasion.
“I have little appetite in any event, Thriplow. Let Cook do what she may and that will suffice.”
The housekeeper’s relief was patent, and by way of help, the dowager asked her personal maid to superintend the preparation of the rooms, thus freeing Mrs. Thriplow for other duties. Feeling that the two women would do better without them, Ottilia suggested to the dowager that they repair to the front downstairs parlour they had occupied yesterday.
“It is the least grand of the rooms,” said the dowager, standing in the centre and looking about at the pale green papered walls with a once-fashionable stripe, the gilt-edged chairs and sofas with prettily cushioned seats, the little escritoire in one corner, and the Adam fireplace where a cheerful blaze had been encouraged by an unseen hand. “I was in the habit of using it daily when I lived here, but Emily preferred the Blue Salon across the hall. She likes formality.” A shadow crossed the older dame’s features. “Liked, I should say. How hard it is to become accustomed.”
Ottilia went to her and led her to one of the sofas set against the wall, obliging her to be seated and taking a perch at her side. “There is no hurry on that score, ma’am.”
“But there is on the score of discovery. Should you not be questioning the servants?”
“It can wait.”
“But they will forget, or worse, supply incorrect details from their imaginations. Servants thrive on these lurid affairs.”
“On the contrary. In a day or so, I imagine they will recall events more clearly,” Ottilia said. “By the sound of things, I should get very little sense out of them today. It is evident they are all suffering an inevitable paralysis of the mind. Besides, I would much prefer to embark upon questioning in a less formal way than we did yesterday. And there are other matters to consider.”
She came under a suspicious stare from the dowager’s dark eyes. “What other matters?”
“Nothing to concern you, ma’am. I would like, for example, to familiarise myself with the layout of the house, if you permit that I wander about unhindered.”
“Francis gave you carte blanche. Do whatever you need to do, my dear. I suppose you will be hunting for a particular door.”
Ottilia laughed. “Well reasoned, ma’am. That and other things. Lord Francis yesterday gave me the key to the late Lady Polbrook’s bedchamber so that I may take another good look around before we allow her ladyship’s maid to—well, to clean and tidy.”
“Yes, that must be done.” The dowager sighed deeply. “What a lowering thought. One forgets the necessary business of disposing of everyday belongings. Emily’s wardrobe will naturally go to her daughter, unless she has bequeathed any items of costume elsewhere. Jardine will know. We had best pack it all away until the poor child is sufficiently composed to deal with it herself.”
Ottilia applauded this suggestion, realising that the busier the dowager could be kept, the better. Not only for her own peace of mind, but to prevent her interference when Ottilia undertook interviews with the staff. If one thing was more certain than another, it was that she would get a deal more out of the servants unhampered by the dowager’s presence.
“It will be for Mary Huntshaw to do the actual packing, but I daresay it would be best if you were to supervise it, ma’am. We cannot have her ladyship’s maid in danger of being accused should anything go missing in addition to the fan.”
Lady Polbrook agreed to this, but the reminder of the fan’s loss led her to inquire how Ottilia proposed to set about finding its present location.
“I have no notion,” said Ottilia frankly. “I doubt there is very much to be done about that until we have Lord Francis back with us.”
“Francis? What in the world can he do in the matter?”
Evidently Lord Francis remained unforgiven for last night’s lapse. Ottilia wisely did not refer to it, but said instead, “Did I not suggest that we must carry our investigations further afield? I depend upon Lord Francis to go out into the world to find Emily’s lover.”
> The hour being advanced and the afternoon dark and dismal, Ottilia felt there was little to be gained in setting off on a tour of the house. The dowager being anxious to know what she intended to do next, Ottilia took time instead for the hour or so before dinner to go over the lists she had made up the night before, to the accompaniment of much comment and discussion.
The promised visit of Colonel Tretower coincided with the dinner hour, and the dowager invited him to partake of the meal in their company. She was amply rewarded when he referred without prompting to Lord Francis’s failure to attend his mother the previous evening.
“My fault, ma’am, I’m afraid. I asked Fan to sup with me instead, for I wanted to give him an account of my dealings with Bow Street.”
Ottilia started. “Bow Street? Did you go there then?”
“Indeed, for I deemed it best to go myself,” he said, nodding to the butler who was ready to ladle a portion of steaming broth into his bowl, “having learned from Mr. Satterleigh that it was his duty to lay his information there. The justices were shocked, of course, but I am relieved to report that they were reluctant to set the blame at Lord Polbrook’s door. I did what I might to encourage this attitude, saying that it was believed his lordship’s journey had been premeditated.”
“But it hadn’t been,” objected the dowager, beginning upon her soup. “Or at least we don’t know that it had.”
“Precisely. We don’t know. It is therefore entirely possible that it was, and serves our purpose better than to discourage the notion. I also told them that Fan has already sent after his brother.”
Ottilia eyed him over her bowl with amusement. “But you did not, I take it, suggest that Lord Francis does not in fact know where his brother has gone?”
Tretower grinned at her as he took up a spoon. “Well spotted, Mrs. Draycott. I could not feel it would serve any useful purpose for them to know that.”
“You are a better conspirator than I gave you credit for, Colonel,” said the dowager approvingly. “Do you suppose the justices will be satisfied to await Randal’s return?”
The Gilded Shroud Page 8
