Ottilia stared. Of course! The chambermaid performed the same chore, day after day, like clockwork. She would not have realised how every sound and sight must be imprinted in her memory. She had no need of a sixth sense. The lack of one item in the familiar pattern had penetrated without full awareness.
Sukey stood like a stock, as if lost in her own recognition. Then a change came and her pansy eyes widened.
“I heard the clock. On the mantel.”
Intent now, Ottilia eyed her. “When, Sukey?”
“When I were outside the door, miss. I were that glad to get out, I stood a minute for me heart was beating so fast, I was afeared as I’d swoon.”
“And you heard the clock. Did it chime?”
The girl nodded wildly. “It ain’t nowise loud. It’s like a little tinkle, chiming the hour.”
“Seven o’clock then.”
“Must have been, miss. It don’t chime but the once. When I hear it of a morning if I’m in there, I know I’m near finished.”
“Oh, well done, Sukey. That is most helpful.”
Sukey beamed. That she understood the significance of her words was doubtful, but she blossomed under the praise. Ottilia thanked her profusely.
“I am sorry to have kept you. I’m afraid you will finish late this morning.”
“It don’t matter, miss,” said the chambermaid airily, kneeling to the fire again. “I’ve only the range to do after, and it ain’t going nowhere.”
Ottilia laughed and, throwing back the curtains around the bed, climbed into it again, wondering if it was too early for a maid to bring hot water for her ablutions. Since she was now wide awake, she could fill in the time until breakfast by resuming her exploration of the house, although she did not wish to get in the way of the servants who would be busy at this hour. Undecided, she nevertheless stopped the chambermaid as she was about to leave the room.
“Sukey, would you be kind enough to ask one of the maids to bring my hot water up early?”
“Yes, miss. If the copper’s been set on the fire, which ain’t nowise certain,” said the chambermaid frankly. “The whole house is that upset, Mrs. Thriplow says as how it’ll be topsyturvy for days.” On which ominous note, the chambermaid bid Ottilia a cheerful good morning and retired, armed with her bucket of coals.
Proof of the housekeeper’s prophecy was rapidly evident. The copper had undoubtedly been nowhere near the fire at its usual time, for no hot water appeared in Ottilia’s chamber until past nine o’clock, and she had perforce to abandon her scheme of checking the rest of the house. It was going on for ten by the time she joined the dowager in the dining parlour, where a small round table set between the two windows had been covered with a cloth and laid for breakfast.
“If you are hoping for sustenance,” said Sybilla by way of greeting, “you may find yourself disappointed. I have been waiting more than half an hour already. Thriplow was not exaggerating. The whole place has gone to pieces.”
“So I have been led to believe,” agreed Ottilia smilingly. “Inevitable, in the circumstances.”
“I’ll give them inevitable,” promised the dowager fiercely. “There is no reason in the world for such slackness.”
“Come now, ma’am. Do you expect the servants to be any less discomposed by these events than ourselves?”
“No, I expect them to be more so,” came the tart response. “They thrive on such happenings.”
“Well, yes. Despicable as it may seem, I daresay it brings excitement into lives otherwise drab beyond bearing.”
Ottilia came under a glare from the dowager’s black eyes. “Must you always stress the very thing I prefer to ignore?”
Laughing, Ottilia begged her pardon. “Do I do that? How very irritating it must be.”
Sybilla flicked a hand at her. “There you go again. It is for me to speak of my irritation, not you.”
Ottilia eyed her narrowly. “You slept badly, ma’am?”
The dowager sighed deeply and her pose of injured defiance collapsed. “Appallingly. I could not swear to it that I closed my eyes at all, but I suppose I must have done.”
“Oh dear,” said Ottilia, contrite. “Did not Venner’s presence help? Perhaps I should not have suggested the move.”
“Yes, you should,” snapped Sybilla. “Do you suppose I cannot endure a few sleepless nights?”
“Not if even one makes you as crotchety as this,” said Ottilia frankly.
A faint laugh escaped the dowager. “My dear Ottilia, if you have a fault, it is in being so ruthlessly right all the time. Are you never at a loss?”
Ottilia smiled. “Frequently, ma’am. At this moment, in fact, for I have been awake since seven and I am ravenous. But I feel it to be grossly unfair to the domestic staff to be complaining of it.”
“Well, so do I not,” stated Sybilla, reaching for a silver hand bell set in the middle of the table and plying it with some violence. “That should shake them up a bit.”
The door did indeed open within a very short space of time, but not to admit the butler, as might have been expected, or even one of the maids. Instead, a well-dressed matron sailed into the dining parlour like a perfumed whirlwind, flinging herself upon the dowager in a flurry of passionate words and hugging the elder dame to her bosom.
“Oh, Mama, it is so dreadful. I was afraid you would be prostrate. I was ready to swoon myself when I read Fanfan’s letter. How terrible it all is!”
Chapter 7
Sybilla struggled to extricate herself. “Let me go, Harriet, I cannot breathe.”
The visitor released her, only to throw her arms wide in a gesture of despair. “There is no bearing it. Poor Emily, what a horrible way to die!”
The dowager waved her towards an unoccupied chair. “Sit down, child, for heaven’s sake, and stop fidgeting me.”
Ottilia was obliged to suppress a sneaking amusement at the other’s look of slight deflation, but as the creature shifted to take the indicated chair she caught sight of Ottilia and halted abruptly.
“But who is this?”
“My new companion,” said Sybilla shortly. “Did I not write to you of Teresa breaking her leg?”
“Oh, of course, I had forgot.”
Ottilia was treated to a bright smile, which instantly reminded her of Lord Francis and gave the lie to the visitor’s harrowed air. Not that Ottilia supposed her insincere, but it was immediately apparent she was a flighty piece with a butterfly mind.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said blithely, offering her hand.
“My daughter, the Countess of Dalesford,” supplied Sybilla.
“I come between Randal and Francis.”
Ottilia took the hand and introduced herself. “I take it Lord Francis wrote to you?”
“Yes, and I set off at once, as you may imagine, and arrived late last night,” responded Lady Dalesford, seating herself in a whirl of silken petticoats. “Dalesford wished me to wait upon his escort, for he had business to attend to before he could leave the estate, but I would not hear of it. ‘How could I leave poor Mama to bear this alone for one more day?’ I said, and Dalesford supposed she had Francis for support, but I knew he had the intention of fetching poor Candia, so that would not answer, and so I told him.”
“You need not have rushed,” interpolated the dowager, taking advantage of her daughter’s drawing breath, “for I have Ottilia, who is more than adequate for my purposes.”
“Oh, I am sure she is everything that is desirable,” uttered the creature, waving expressive hands, “but a stranger is not the same.”
“Very true,” said Ottilia before the dowager could cut in again. “I am sure her ladyship will be the better for your support, Lady Dalesford.”
“I will need it if I have sunk back to ‘her ladyship.’”
Ottilia laughed. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am, I had forgot.”
At this point, the door opened again to admit the butler, accompanied by the footman and a maid. All three
were laden with trays, the contents of which they proceeded to set out, while the countess resumed the direction of the conversation.
“What in the world possessed you to come here, Mama? I went directly to Bruton Street this morning, but Gipping told me you had removed. Could anything be more macabre?”
Lady Dalesford gave a shudder, which Ottilia found quite as artistic as Sukey’s. She had disposed her elegant person in a picturesque fashion that Ottilia guessed had become a habit. But her advent was opportune, providing the dowager with a distraction from the tardiness of the servants that Ottilia at least welcomed.
It provided Ottilia equally with an opportunity to subject Abel the footman to a surreptitious examination. The glimpse she’d had of a face behind the door before Cattawade was revealed had been fleeting, and since Ottilia had seen the footman but once before, she could not be at all certain of having identified his features. She had learned to trust her senses, but at this fresh sight of Abel she fell prey to doubt.
“I had a very good reason for removing from Bruton Street,” the dowager was saying. “Someone had to take control of this household with Francis away and Emily gone.”
A utensil she was just about to set down fell from the maid’s nerveless fingers. Ottilia quickly reached to pick it up and hand it back to her, glad that Lady Dalesford’s immediate response prevented Sybilla from noticing.
“I declare, I could weep to think of Emily now, little though we cared for each other.”
“Pray do not go about telling that to the world,” said her mother roundly. “Bear in mind that we are all in deep mourning.”
Lady Dalesford threw up her hands. “Gracious heaven! I never thought to bring my blacks, such a rush as I was in. You are perfectly right, Mama. But what about you? Why have you not gone into black?”
“Venner is going to fetch my sewing woman tomorrow.”
“But it will be days before she can make you a gown.”
“She can make over one of my old ones,” said the dowager dismissively. “Since I am not receiving, it is not yet of moment.”
“Well, I cannot possibly be seen like this,” declared the countess, nodding to Cattawade who had placed a cup for her and had the coffee pot poised. “What in the world would people say? I shall have to have Celeste make up a suitable gown immediately. I declare, I loathe wearing black, but I daresay it may not be so bad if she will fashion it up to the minute.”
Her mother cut in sharply. “Save yourself the trouble. I have an excellent scheme in mind, and it will spare you the cost of a new gown.” She turned to the butler, who had just filled her cup. “Thank you, Cattawade, we will serve ourselves.”
As the butler signed to his minions, Ottilia glanced rapidly from his face to the footman’s. Was there any slight resemblance? Could she possibly have seen in Cattawade’s jowled features the vibrant good looks of the younger man?
And then Abel, letting the maid precede him, was through the aperture, and the butler withdrew behind them both. Ottilia stared at the closed door, still trying, with scant success, to fit one image on top of the other.
“When Francis returns, Harriet, you will go home and take Candia with you.”
Over the rim of her coffee cup, the countess’s face fell. “Oh no, must I? Yes, I suppose I must, poor child.”
“You are better placed than I to take care of her,” pursued the dowager, reaching for a breakfast roll and requesting Ottilia to pass the butter.
Ottilia thrust her problem to the back of her mind and concentrated on Sybilla’s discourse.
“And the presence of her cousins will help to divert Candia’s mind.”
Lady Dalesford shivered and waved away the basket of bread rolls Ottilia was offering. “No, I thank you, I could not possibly eat a thing. How could anything divert Candia’s mind from this horror? I am sure I shall not sleep for weeks.”
Ottilia was beset by unseemly amusement and had all to do to hide it. Everything the countess said and did had a flourish that attracted interest. But if it had once been so by design, it had clearly become so much a part of the creature that Ottilia did not believe it was studied affectation. It was decidedly endearing, and she warmed to the woman.
“You are not in question,” said her mother flatly, spreading butter on her roll with a lavish hand. “And the horror of the situation is precisely what we wish to minimise, as far as Candia is concerned.”
“Yes, yes, I see that,” instantly returned the other, sipping her coffee. “We must strive to behave as normally as possible. Oh, and what of her come-out?”
“It will have to be put off for another year.”
“Gracious, yes! But even then, with Emily gone—” She broke off, suddenly setting down her cup. “Lord, I will have to do it myself!”
“Well, there is nothing to concern you in that,” said her mother. “You may bring her out with your own daughter. What could be better?”
Lady Dalesford waved a dismissive hand, a mannerism wholly reminiscent of her mother, Ottilia noted as she began upon her own repast.
“That, yes. I may as well bring out two girls as one, and my Lizzy can have no objection. But have I to take Emily’s place in all things? Oh, Mama, I don’t feel as though I can.”
Ottilia could not refrain from entering the lists. “Of course you cannot be all things to the girl. But you can be her loving aunt, as I am sure you are. She will very soon become accustomed to depend upon you just as much as she needs to do. Young people are very adaptable, do you not find?”
Looking quite astonished, Lady Dalesford stared at her in silence for a brief moment. Ottilia was relieved to hear the dowager chuckle.
“You will have to get used to Ottilia. She has a keen mind and cannot help exercising it at the expense of everyone with whom she comes in contact.”
“Why, thank you, Sybilla,” Ottilia returned on a dry note. “I am sure that will reconcile Lady Dalesford in an instant.”
The countess gave an embarrassed little laugh. “You must forgive me. I am so used to Teresa, who never says boo to a goose, that I was surprised just for the moment.”
“You may as well prepare to be bowled over, for we are relying on Ottilia to uncover the murderer.” The dowager swallowed down a portion of bread roll. “Which is another reason why we cannot be doing with Candia on the premises. She will hamper our investigations.”
Lady Dalesford’s mouth dropped open. “Investigations? What in the world can you mean?”
Ottilia, biting into a roll liberally laced with a delicious blackberry jam, glanced across at the dowager. Did she mean to enlighten her daughter? The fewer people to be apprised of their purposes, the better. Particularly a creature whose discretion might be suspect. Not that she was likely to let anything fall on purpose, but her tongue was clearly not under her full control.
The dowager was frowning. “How much did Francis tell you?”
“Oh, the bare bones, I imagine. That poor Emily was dead.” A little shiver shook the countess as she added, “Strangled in her own bed. And that matters were complicated because Randal was away. Oh, and that he was going to fetch Candia.”
For a moment the dowager did not speak, only sipping thirstily at her coffee. Ottilia thought she was weighing what she might say. At length she set down her cup and sighed.
“There is no point in keeping it from you, but you must be careful not to give Candia an inkling of what we suspect.”
Her daughter’s eyes grew round with apprehension. “Suspect? Suspect what?”
“Randal departed for France in the early hours of that very morning. And Emily was killed, as far as we know, around the same time.”
The implication hit, and Lady Dalesford drew in breath sharply. “No! Oh no, Mama. He cannot have done it. Not Randal. It isn’t possible.”
“Unfortunately, it is quite possible. Not that I believe it for a moment. But until we can prove the contrary, Randal remains suspect.”
The flat tone had its effect. It
occurred to Ottilia that the reality of the situation had not fully penetrated Lady Dalesford’s mind until this moment. Which accounted for the superficial response she had hitherto demonstrated. Her features blanched and anguish showed in her eyes. When she spoke, there was a tremor in her voice.
“Oh, poor children. Poor, poor children. Yes, I will take Candia away. She must not know of this. And Giles?”
“Francis has sent for him. I don’t know what he wrote, but Jardine is pledged to have a messenger find Giles and bring him home.”
Ottilia quietly rose and refilled the countess’s cup. “A little more coffee, ma’am?”
There was a blind look in her eyes as they found Ottilia. Dark eyes in a vibrant face, framed by locks of a darker hue than her brother’s, but with the same rich texture.
“Coffee? Oh—yes, thank you.”
Returning to her chair, Ottilia took care to adopt a matter-of-fact tone. “I am glad you are come, Lady Dalesford, for there is much to be done. Is it your intention to stay here?”
“No, I—” She seemed to have difficulty concentrating. “I had not thought.”
“Harriet has a very good town house of her own,” the dowager interposed.
“No doubt, but I wondered if perhaps her ladyship might be willing to assist you with the disposal of the marchioness’s effects.”
The countess had lifted the refilled cup to her lips, but at these words, her fingers shook perceptibly and she was obliged to set it down. There was a distinct quiver at her lips as she spoke.
“Meddle with Emily’s things? Oh, I had rather not.”
Sybilla pounced on this. “Don’t be such a ninny, Harriet. If I can bear it, so can you. Besides, I had far rather trust to you than that featherbrained Huntshaw. She may do the heavy work.”
Lady Dalesford looked decidedly mulish. “But surely it is for Randal to—”
Her mother snorted. “We cannot possibly wait for Randal. And I am perfectly certain he will want nothing to do with such an enterprise. You know very well how distant were relations between those two.”
“Then that is settled,” said Ottilia, taking up her discarded roll again and turning to the dowager. “Why do you not go with your daughter to her house, ma’am, while she removes? I am sure you must have much to say to each other. And it will do you good to be an hour or two out of this atmosphere, do you not think?”
The Gilded Shroud Page 11
