by Emma Jameson
Juliet, who’d heard this observation many times when it was Eunice’s turn to moan, nodded eagerly. “But suppose I could, to use Margaret’s phrase, fling a pretty baby in his path? All you need to do is drag Leonard up to Birdswing to visit Mother and me. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I didn’t think your village had an orphanage.”
“We don’t, that’s the beauty of it. We have one healthy little foundling boy. The vicar doesn’t want him sent away, not while the war keeps everything in flux. And the Council hasn’t seen fit to rule otherwise, so the boy remains in St. Mark’s care. They’re even calling him Mark, for want of a better name. He needs fostering at the very least.”
“But I live in Plymouth. And you said the vicar won’t—”
“Won’t send a baby to an orphanage, maybe to die there,” Juliet cut across her firmly. “But giving Baby Mark a permanent home and responsible parents is a very different thing. And you and Leonard can take him to the country yourself, if the bombers come.”
Eunice clasped her hands together, smiling so tremulously Juliet’s eyes stung. It hurt to see that much hope. But just as quickly, Eunice’s visible elation flagged. “Leonard won’t allow it. I know he won’t allow it.”
Juliet had one last arrow in her quiver, but for a moment, she wavered. It was true, while presenting a tale of woe, the Moaners got personal. But otherwise, they maintained decorum, and Juliet was about to touch on very indecorous territory indeed. But as she’d so recently declared, she was a married woman. That gave her certain conversational rights, so long as men were out of earshot. “Eunice, how long since you slept with Leonard?”
The other woman groaned. “I don’t know. A year. More.”
“Has the olive branch been extended?”
“About a thousand times. I need earplugs to shut out the begging.”
“Give in,” Juliet urged. “Yield a little ground. Then bring him for an afternoon at Belsham Manor, and I’ll introduce him to Baby Mark.”
Soon, Alice, Katrina, and Betty crowded into the foyer with their coats on, making further private conversation impossible. Promising to ring Eunice the next day, Juliet groped for her handbag and realized she’d left it in the parlor.
“Looking for this monstrosity?” Margaret appeared, holding it up by its long leather strap. “Attach a canteen, and it could pass for a saddlebag.”
“Yes, well, I never did possess any sense of style. The few times in my life I’ve looked presentable, I had you to thank.” Juliet intended to sound cutting, but the words came out humbly. “Forgive me for what I said, Margaret. I’ve never judged you or Gerald, you must know that. I was just cross.”
“I don’t blame you. The fault is entirely mine.” Graceful in forgiveness as she was in all things, Margaret hugged Juliet, the crown of her fragrant red hair tickling Juliet’s nostrils. “Let me see the other Moaners out the door, and we’ll talk.”
When Margaret returned from the task, she removed her light sweater and hung it up, revealing shapely, blemish-free arms. Juliet was impressed; it often took months for Margaret to fully recover. “You look wonderful. But I thought you said....”
“Dodgy health, yes. Well, people tend to assume I mean my skin, but lately, the trouble’s more of an emotional variety. A difficulty with Gerald weighs on my mind.” She seated herself.
Juliet was surprised. As children, Margaret had been one of Penny’s friends, not Juliet’s, and as teenagers, the trio had avoided one another as much as a small village allowed. But after renewing their acquaintance at a meeting of the Plymouth Gardener’s Association, Juliet and Margaret had spent plenty of time together, including afternoons in Margaret’s hothouse and a great deal of digging, potting, and pruning at Belsham Manor. Yet during all that time, Juliet had never heard the other woman complain about her husband or signal even the briefest bout of trouble in paradise.
“Oh, don’t look so terrified,” Margaret said. “Gerald hasn’t replaced me with a younger mistress. Despite what I can only assume are fervent prayers from Plymouth society.” Opening a gold cigarette case, she withdrew a Pall Mall, mounting it in a long black holder. “It’s business. And water under the bridge, most likely, though I worry about him. And I wouldn’t want to lose all this.” Lighting up, she blew smoke at the crystal chandelier. Throwing back her shoulders and lifting her chin, she reclined on the sofa’s velvet cushions, managing to look sophisticated, magnetic, and vulgar, all at the same time.
Did I really call her a bee orchid? Nonsense. She’s a ranunculus, a prize one, just like the cultivars that won her a silver cup, Juliet thought, seeing the winning flower in her mind: blood-red and showy, with layer upon layer of concentric petals drawing the eye down, down, down. If a blooming rose was like a bride, then an opened ranunculus was like a whore—the elegant sort, all silk stockings and French perfume—that blameless women sometimes envied. But perhaps mention of whores was uncalled for. Margaret had met Gerald at a charity fête, not a jazz club, and no one, not even the first Mrs. Freeman, denied the pair had ultimately married for love, not money. Still, Margaret had fashioned herself into more than a field-flower to be visited briefly. She’d become like one of her own hothouse specimens, destined to be possessed.
“I suppose importing any manner of goods will be challenging with an anticipated U-boat blockade, even—what’s that Gerald ships again?”
“Phosphate. And nitrogen.”
“Yes, of course.” With only the vaguest idea how Gerald made his fortune, Juliet had assumed his business might profit from shortages. Or given the “Dig for Victory” campaign, had the British government stepped in, freezing prices on the chemicals necessary to keep land arable and food crops thriving?
“Yes, well, like good patriots, we’ll weather the storm,” a man said in a hearty baritone. Gerald Freeman stood in the doorway, dressed as always in a couture suit so understated many would mistake it for off-the-peg. His diamond tiepin glinted; his black homburg hat was in his hand. “And we must be good patriots, or the mob will come with pitchforks and torches, isn’t that right?”
“Oh, dear, don’t start with another lecture on conformity.” Bringing the elegant black cigarette holder to her lips, Margaret took another lungful of smoke the way an oxygen tent patient gulped air. “I’ve been ghastly to poor Juliet and only just said sorry. The last thing we need is to start arguing about politics.”
“I suppose not. Though I must say, Juliet, you’ve always struck me as a thoughtful woman. And Linton is a fine old Anglo-Saxon name.” Smiling at her, Gerald strolled into the living room. Still handsome at sixty, the silver at his temples and in his mustache made him all the more distinguished. “What do you make of this phony war? So many men in France just sitting on their backsides, staring at one another across the border while we face all these rules and regulations. It’s intrusive, positively ridiculous. The propaganda on the wireless, the shameless scare tactics—”
“Gerald.” Margaret’s tone was light as a feather. “As much as we adore you, neither of us care a fig for the excesses of Mr. Chamberlain, the Parliament, or His Royal Highness the King.”
He laughed. “Can’t blame a man for trying. Perhaps I’ll invite Smith into my study for an early-evening cigar. Hear the views of a true Englishman on this country’s present course.”
“True Englishman?” Juliet repeated when he’d gone. “Have I missed a joke?”
“No, just another of Gerald’s ideals,” Margaret said indulgently. “He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, so naturally he romanticizes the working class, particularly those whose families have lived in England since time out of mind. ‘The unsung heroes of this sceptered isle.’” She shrugged. “It’s an excuse for him to smoke and drink with his driver. Whereas you and I require no excuse. Care for a sherry?”
“Yes, please.” Juliet was driving, but a thimbleful of sherry wasn’t enough to go to her head. Besides, she’d been so occupied in making up with Margaret, she’d h
ardly paused to internally celebrate finding Baby Mark a potential home. Surely that called for a toast.
“I still feel I owe you an explanation for my cattiness beyond being in a snit over Gerald’s business.” Margaret returned from the sideboard with two dainty glasses. Handing one over, she draped herself across the sofa again. Juliet, who still had a schoolgirls’ habit of sitting up ramrod-straight, size eleven shoes firmly planted and knees pressed together, envied the other woman’s ease.
“Well, we are the Moaners, not the Enthusiasts. I went on for much too long about Jane Daley when I was supposed to complain about Ethan.”
“But of course you were happy to play a major role in the child’s rescue. I didn’t mean to pooh-pooh that. It’s splendid.” Margaret lit another Pall Mall. “It was all that fawning over Penny’s widower that made my heart bleed for you.”
Juliet lowered her glass. She set it on the table, picked it up again, and mechanically forced herself to take a sip. Her cheeks were warming. “What do you mean?”
“Oh. Sweetheart.” Margaret’s look of concern was almost unbearable. “I was in Birdswing last week. Delivered some cut flowers to St. Mark’s for a wedding. The vicar told me Dr. Bones had settled at Fenton House, so I stopped by and introduced myself. Why not? If I’m suffering another outbreak the next time I’m there, he’s sure to be sent for. Anyway, my point is—I’ve seen him.”
Juliet took another sip. Thankfully, the closest mirror hung on the wall behind her, because if she caught sight of herself reddening, she’d blush all the harder.
Margaret didn’t continue for what felt like forever. When she spoke again, it was in a brisk, practical tone. “I wish we’d been friends when Ethan turned up. I can only imagine how heady it must have been, singled out by a man so dashing, so sought after. I understand why you fell for him. He made you feel like Cinderella. But now you know he married you for money. And if you’d had an older sister or a friend, a good, loyal friend, you might have heard the truth before it was too late.”
Juliet’s glass was empty. Her sherry had disappeared. “I can’t even pin down Ethan long enough to divorce him. Do you really imagine you must warn me not to marry Dr. Bones?”
“Good Lord, no.” A surprised chuckle escaped Margaret. Looking abashed, she covered her mouth. “I’m warning you not to humiliate yourself again. Ju, darling.” Margaret reached across the coffee table to take her hand. “However much you’re infatuated with this man, let it go, I beg you. There’s a saying: water seeks its own level….”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Juliet exploded, on her feet so quickly, she sent her empty glass flying. “Out with it. I’m not pretty enough or stylish enough or graceful enough for him! Not to mention the fact I loom over him like a giraffe on stilts! I don’t need an older sister or loyal friend to tell me that. The world tells me every single day, in a hundred unsubtle ways!” For a horrible second, Juliet thought she might cry. But it was true, all true, and she prided herself on being someone who could choke down the truth. Choke it down, digest it, and turn up for another helping the next day. “Well! How’s that for a champion moan?” She grinned at Margaret. “I’ve been working up to it all week.”
The other woman put down her cigarette and applauded. “Brilliant. For a moment I thought I’d ruined our friendship. And I couldn’t bear that, I really couldn’t.”
“Don’t be silly. And don’t go erupting into boils and welts again,” Juliet said. “I mean to have you up to the manor by Advent at the latest, so you can’t be bedridden.”
“I’ll pass the command along to my skin. Not to mention my nervous system. We’re throwing a cocktail party tomorrow. Last minute, all Gerald’s friends, naturally, since I’ve so few. The theme is ‘Devil Take the Blackout,’ and it may go past sunset, if you can believe our daring. Would you like to come?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not much for parties. And I’d have to overnight in Plymouth….”
“You’d be welcome to stay here. Just think about it. I’d love another hen among the crowing cocks.” Margaret grinned. They indulged in a bit more banter, mostly to reassure one another there were no hard feelings, and then Juliet embarked on the two-hour drive back to Birdswing.
She was just being kind. Concerned for my well-being, Juliet told herself as the orange sun sank halfway between tree-dotted hills. Stafford Road, a long gray ribbon, stretched into the distance, but with luck she’d arrive at the manor thirty minutes ahead of full dark. The Crossley’s engine was tuned, the tires well-patched, the silence perfectly suited to contemplation. A wise woman would look back on her marriage to Ethan Bolivar, review her missteps, appreciate the lessons, and vow to do better.
Juliet intended to do that, she really did. But before she knew what was happening, she fell into a misty recollection of The Jane Daley Affair, as she secretly called it. It bore only scant resemblance to reality, especially at the end, when Ben insisted that she, Juliet, accompany him to St. Barnabas Hospital. There they knelt at Jane’s bedside in wordless vigil, except for meaningful glances and a slow, warm kiss. The fantasy proved so engrossing, it kept her occupied right up until her arrival at Belsham Manor.
As she tucked the Crossley’s keys into her front pocket, it occurred to Juliet that perhaps it was time to leave the Moaners, or convince the group to adopt a new mission statement. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy their monthly gatherings. But outside of divorcing Ethan, which would necessitate a certain amount of discussion with barristers and the King’s Proctor, her future ex-husband no longer seemed worth the breath it took to complain about him.
A Lighter and a Lorry
30 October, 1939
Ben was waiting by the front gate when Lady Juliet drove up. It was his first day relying on a cane instead of crutches, so he’d made the short walk from porch to fence a little early to prove to Mrs. Cobblepot he could. But in truth, he was restless after his encounter with Lucy’s ghost: jittery and eager to discuss it, yet afraid he might be considered foolish or mad, even by his housekeeper. Cornwall had always been a county apart, famous for haunted mineshafts, mysterious pre-Christian monuments, and the otherworldly beauty of Bodmin Moor. It was one thing for Ben to embrace the ghost stories, the tales of fairy folk, the suggestion of magic. It was quite another for him to admit he’d seen an apparition, even in a dream, or that he’d shut down his office for the day because of it.
“Good morning, Dr. Bones,” Lady Juliet called from behind the wheel of the Crossley as he loaded his cane and black doctor’s bag in the back. After nearly losing Jane Daley, Ben had decided that the bag, like his gas mask, would accompany him everywhere. And in addition to his usual arsenal, he’d added two ampules of adrenalin chloride, just in case.
“Questioning the second person of interest,” she continued as he climbed into the passenger seat. “I’m positively shivering with anticipation.”
“Second person?” Ben was distracted by her atypical choice of clothing. “What’s that you’re wearing?”
She scowled. “Garments, Dr. Bones. Garments were devised by the human race as protection against the elements, including the scorching sun and the relentless rain. You may not have noticed, but as a precaution against discomfort and public censure, I ensconce myself in them daily.”
“That’s a skirt,” Ben continued, undeterred. “Good grief, I can almost see your ankles.” He squinted. “No, that’s just boot leather. I had no idea skirts were made from Black Watch tartan.”
“Skirts are made of fabric. It so happens I once had a deal of tartan left over from a project that is absolutely none of your affair, and I sewed this one to prove to Mother I’m capable of such a feat,” Lady Juliet said, tone growing sterner as her broad cheeks reddened. “I chose to wear it today because it so happens that while in Plymouth, I may drop in on an afternoon party. And I may even permit you to accompany me, doctor, if your impertinent observations don’t render you persona non grata.”
Ben doubted a city party was p
repared for the sight of Lady Juliet’s overlong, unevenly-fringed skirt, but he wasn’t about to say so. Besides, this would be his first time in Plymouth, and perhaps styles were different there. “How is Bobby Archer the second person of interest?”
“Helen Archer was the first. She detested Penny enough to wish her dead, which renders her a suspect in my book,” Lady Juliet said, pulling away from the curb. “Perhaps she encouraged us to focus on the lorry to throw us off her scent.”
“I suppose,” Ben said, doubting it. It wasn’t until they were truly on their way, traveling down Stafford Road with nothing but brown fields around them and cloudless sky above, that he gathered the nerve to say what he’d been working up to.
“The first time I saw Belsham Manor, you said it was so Gothic that as a child, you assumed the Lintons were secretly vampires. Well, Fenton House may capture your imagination. It’s haunted.”
“Doctor! Are you having me on?”
“Not at all.” He chuckled. “I think of myself as a modern man, a man of science. So I know it’s out of character.”
“Ordinarily, I adore ghost stories. I am Cornish. But Lucy….” Lady Juliet sounded acutely uncomfortable. “I knew Lucy. We weren’t particularly close, but I liked her and wish I’d known her better. To imagine her spirit trapped in the place where she died, dead to this world yet barred from the next? No. I don’t call that amusing.”
“I wasn’t joking. I’m quite serious. I’ve been walking in my sleep, which is quite a feat if you think about it. Last night while sleepwalking, I climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, dreaming of Lucy all the while. She wore robes, blue robes, and sat beside a blue lamp. That meant something, I’m sure, but I don’t know what.” He paused, struggling to remember. “She spoke to me, I know she did, but I can’t recall what she said—I had it for a moment, but then I woke up in that cold room and something fell from the ceiling, or thin air. It landed beside me, I jumped, and whatever she said went right out of my head.”
