by Emily Claire
“Our sitting room is awful cold,” Mary added. “Mrs. Cox won’t let us stoke the fire any more. She says it’s too hot now that she’s going through her ‘womanly times.’” She made a face.
“I don’t get hot when I go through my times,” Susan said.
“Not those times,” Isabella said. “Old ladies have a whole different set of problems.”
“I daresay there are no problems worse than bleeding from your—”
“Susan!” Diana exclaimed, scandalized.
Lydia tried to suppress her laughter and choked on it instead. She sputtered and coughed while Mary looked grimly up at her.
“Go to my room,” Isabella said. “You can have the maid stoke the fire as hot as you like.”
The girls exchanged glances; Isabella’s room was sacred space, ordinarily off limits to the younger Wycliffes. Before Izzy could change her mind, they scrambled to gather up their papers and paints and skittered out of the room.
Once they were gone, Isabella crossed the room and locked Diana’s door. She spun around, the mahogany skirt of her morning dress swirling at its cream-embroidered hem.
“What on earth did you mean, you wish you had killed Mr. Stewart?” Isabella demanded.
Diana kept her lips clamped together and stared at her sister, then at Lydia.
“I didn’t mean it,” she murmured at last.
“It’s unlike you to say such a thing,” Lydia said gently. “Darling, did something happen between you and the curate?”
Lydia’s heart pounded. Had Diana rejected him? Or worse, had he rejected her? Was that why she had behaved so oddly after his death?
Diana’s bottom lip trembled. She drew her knees up toward her chest and wrapped her arms around her pale-pink skirt. She watched the fire, then glanced up at Isabella.
“Stop staring at me, Izzy.”
Lydia waved a hand at Isabella, and, for once in her life, Isabella paid attention, thankfully. She returned to her spot at the foot of the bed and waited, the rapid bouncing of her feet belying her apparent patience.
“What happened, Diana?” Lydia asked. “You can tell us.”
Diana frowned at the fire. “He wasn’t as good a person as everyone thinks,” she said at last.
A long silence descended. Lydia waited, thoughts racing without ever quite arriving at a destination.
“Wasn’t he?” she prodded at last.
Diana swallowed and tightened her arms around her legs. “He wasn’t a gentleman. Not to me.”
Isabella sat up straighter. Lydia cut her off with a sharp look.
They waited. The seconds dragged by. Diana opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“It started not long after he arrived in Lanceton,” she said at last. Her tiny voice was almost lost amid the crackling of the fire. “He was kind at first. He talked to me after services or if we met in the village, and he was pleasant enough. Then he said he had developed feelings of devotion for me. I told him he was very kind but that I was already approaching an understanding with another gentleman—Mr. Buxton, of course.” She tightened her arms around herself. “He refused to accept it. He grew more aggressive. He began sending me little letters declaring his feelings, and then he cornered me after services and told me he’d make me his wife whether I liked it or not. He said I could either accept his proposal of my own volition or he’d make sure I found myself in a compromising situation and then I’d have to marry him.”
Isabella sat straight up.
“He did what?” she demanded. “Diana, are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain!” Diana exclaimed. “I was there for every dreadful instant.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Isabella asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Diana scowled at the fire. “He said nobody would believe me. Why would they? He was a curate, for heaven’s sake.”
The scent of the coffee, comforting a moment ago, now turned Lydia’s stomach. She set it aside and crept on her knees to Diana, who refused to meet her gaze.
Lydia took her hands anyway.
“We believe you,” she said. “Of course we do. You poor girl.”
“I’ll kill him.” Isabella shot to her feet and paced the room, skirts swirling furiously. “He’s already dead, but that won’t stand in my way. He’ll wish he’d only been stabbed with knitting needles by the time I’ve finished with him.”
“Izzy, that isn’t helpful,” Lydia said.
Diana seemed to disagree. She glanced up at Isabella, relief all over her features.
“He was so respected,” Diana said, the words tumbling out. “Everybody would have thought it a good match, and he said that it was my duty to marry him, that God had told him I’d be a suitable wife.”
“God told him?” Isabella sputtered. “My darling girl, someone might have been whispering in his ear, but you can be assured it wasn’t God.”
She kicked at a scrap of paper the younger girls had left on the carpet. It didn’t move, which only seemed to inflame her more.
“We went to his funeral,” Isabella exclaimed. “We went and grieved that monster like we thought ourselves his family. Mama was right, that was no place for decent ladies, but not for the reasons she thought.”
Lydia stroked the back of Diana’s hands. “You poor thing. You must have been sitting on this for weeks.”
“Months,” Diana said.
Months.
The breakfast and tonic and coffee all lurched around in Lydia’s stomach. She may as well have been poisoned. She had been, in a way.
The curate had held a central place in her life over the past quarter of a year. Her parents had welcomed him into their home. He had delivered sermons to her father’s beloved flock. She had supervised the washing of his laundry, of all things. She wanted to retch.
“Did anyone know?” Lydia asked. “Anybody at all? Or have you been suffering alone?”
“I didn’t tell anybody,” Diana said. “I think Cooper might have suspected. He caught Mr. Stewart and me alone in the sitting room once when Mr. Stewart claimed to have come by to return a book Papa had lent him. Mr. Stewart had grabbed at my arm and didn’t let go until Cooper came back into the room. He didn’t say anything, though, and we never spoke about it.” Her jaw tightened. “I don’t think he would have killed Mr. Stewart, but if he did, I’m grateful to him.”
16
Lydia shifted the basket of jellies on her arm as a cold morning breeze whipped at the hair escaping from her bonnet. The jars in the basket clinked as she walked. Her generous mother had insisted on sending calf’s foot jelly, pork jelly, and strawberry jelly “just to tempt the man to eat” despite Lydia explaining that she had heard nothing to suggest Mr. Pemberton’s appetite hadn’t restored itself the moment he’d rid his system of whatever poison had been in the chocolate.
Mr. Cooper let her in and offered to fetch Isabella, but Lydia stopped him with a shake of her head.
“I’m here to see Mr. Pemberton, if he’s well enough.” She raised the basket slightly. “On parish business.”
“Beg pardon, miss. I’ll go see if the gentleman is suitable for company. If you’d like to wait in the morning room, I’ll return shortly.”
He gestured and turned as if to lead her, but she smiled. “I know the way, Mr. Cooper. I’ll show myself in.”
The butler bowed in acknowledgement and helped her with her bonnet and pelisse, then turned to the stairs. She watched him go, her smile fading. Diana’s loose speculations from yesterday lingered in her thoughts. Had Mr. Cooper been aware of Mr. Stewart’s treatment of the Wycliffes’ middle daughter? If so, would he have been upset enough to commit a murder? Lydia couldn’t imagine it, but, as was becoming rapidly clear to her, she couldn’t afford to behave as if reality had any intentions of obeying her imagination.
She paced across the morning room’s lavender carpet. The fire had already been lit; no doubt the ladies of the house would come here whenever they were done with breakf
ast, to receive calls or continue their needlework. The family was still at breakfast, Lydia was sure, and that was part of why she’d come so early. She wanted to see Mr. Pemberton alone.
He appeared at the door, still pale and looking rather the worse for wear. Lydia frowned.
“Are you sure you’re fit to be up and about?” she asked. “I could always come back.”
“Good morning to you, too, Miss Shrewsbury.”
Heat rose to Lydia’s face. She curtsied. “Of course, good morning. How are you feeling? I’ve come to inquire.”
“How thoughtful,” he said. “I didn’t think you liked me well enough.”
She cleared her throat. “I’ve come to call on you on behalf of my parents. As you are in their parish, however temporarily, they felt it their responsibility to ask after your welfare.” She reached for the basket sitting on a side table and flipped up the white cloth that was both cushioning and covering the jars. “My mother sent a variety of jellies she hopes will help you recover your strength.”
Mr. Pemberton’s eyes narrowed in apparent surprise and perhaps even confusion. “That’s very kind. Give her my thanks.”
“Certainly.”
An awkward silence settled between them, and Lydia waved aimlessly at the couch. “Do have a seat. I daresay you ought not to be standing in your condition.”
“Gladly, if you’ll sit with me.”
She pursed her lips and perched delicately on the far edge of the sofa. Mr. Pemberton’s lips twitched, and he sank onto the other end, leaving the majority of the long purple cushion between them.
“Are you recovering?” Lydia asked after a long moment.
“Tolerably well.”
She folded her hands on her lap. “Did the doctor or the constable discover what you were poisoned with?”
“The constable is useless on the subject of poisons,” he said. “The doctor, however, believes it to have been cyanide. Your friend Miss Sinclair agreed, and proceeded to tell me it may have been procured from the pits of some fruit. Odd conversation, that.”
“Quite ordinary for Caroline.”
At Mr. Pemberton’s puzzled expression, Lydia added, “She’s a competent gardener. She knows the Latin names and medicinal uses of more plants than I think I’ve seen in my life.”
“And she’s unmarried, too.”
Lydia straightened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Wycliffe’s friends,” he said. “I notice you’re all about the house more often than not, and you’re all well into womanhood and yet unmarried. Did Miss Wycliffe scare off all your suitors so she wouldn’t have to share you?”
It did seem like the kind of thing Isabella might do. Lydia wasn’t sure if she liked Mr. Pemberton for recognizing Isabella’s charming audacity or resented him for being so presumptuous.
“I’ve never had suitors to chase,” Lydia said. “Not that it’s your concern.”
“I doubt that very much.”
Lydia raised an eyebrow at him. “Are your standards so low that you think every member of my sex equally desirable?”
Small lines appeared on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. “Do you think so little of yourself as to believe you are not desirable, Miss Shrewsbury?”
“The vicarage is equipped with mirrors,” she said. “Even a churchmouse must face her own reflection now and again.”
“Your mirrors must be very bad indeed for you to miss those pretty eyes and that charming smile,” he said.
Heat crept up Lydia’s neck. What was he on about? More important, what angle was he trying to play?
He touched his chin, where a fine layer of stubble darkened his wan skin. “You look confused.”
“I’m trying to determine exactly what you hope to obtain from complimenting me,” she admitted.
His eyebrows flashed up. “Only the privilege of watching you be complimented. Your blush adds bloom to your cheeks.”
She stood up. “I’ll leave your jellies here.” She smoothed her skirts, looking everywhere but at his face. “You can leave the basket with Isabella. She’ll see it’s returned to me. Good day, Mr. Pemberton.”
“Don’t leave.” He rose to his feet, too, though it seemed to take a good deal of effort. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. My brush with death has left me feeling bolder than usual.”
She shifted. The lavender carpet gave too much under her feet; she felt unsteady.
“We can resume our talk of poisons and murder, if that’s what you prefer,” he said. “Or jellies, or Miss Sinclair’s interest in botany. Just don’t leave.”
Lydia laced her fingers together and rested them against her skirt. “I don’t enjoy being complimented,” she said. “Nor do I enjoy the company of men who think the ladies in their sphere serve as playthings.”
An expression passed over his face almost too quickly to be seen. He reached for the arm of the couch as if to steady himself.
“I promise you, Miss Shrewsbury, I would never do you the discourtesy of regarding you so poorly. I admit I spend too much time in London society, where teasing and wit is the order of the day. If you don’t like that, I can be serious.”
“I would prefer it.”
“Then please, sit, and I’ll do my best.”
She narrowed her eyes, but he seemed sincere. As sincere as such a fundamentally flippant gentleman could be, at any rate. She chose to give him credit for the effort.
She sank back onto the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. He resumed his seat, too, and looked cautiously at her from across the length of the couch.
“You might ask me if the poison has had any lingering effects,” he prodded.
She nodded. “Has it?”
“Yes,” he said, relaxing back a little into the purple cushions. “Thank you for asking.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. She suppressed it.
“My heart rate seems abnormally slow, and I get dizzy when I stand,” he continued solemnly. “The doctor says these symptoms are likely to subside over the week, but I’m to coddle myself thoroughly until then.”
His face was a picture of careful studiousness. She examined the corners of his face for hints of mockery; but no, he was trying to speak in earnest. He was dreadful at it, even when detailing the symptoms of his own recent flirtation with murder.
“Solemnity doesn’t suit you,” she said after a moment. “But do keep trying, I’m enjoying watching the effort.”
He stared at her, then burst into laughter. “Was that a joke, Miss Shrewsbury?”
“I have been known to make them.” She considered him, then allowed herself a very small smile. “I’m glad to hear you don’t expect to be ill for long.”
“Does Miss Sinclair’s guess of cyanide satisfy you?”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t know enough about poisons to say. In truth, I’m rather more interested in the question of who put it in your chocolate.”
His eyes lit up, and he shifted to face her, placing his elbow on the back of the couch. “You are still investigating, then.”
She hesitated, not sure how much she wanted to share.
“You are,” he said. “You fancy yourself a bit of a constable.”
“I thought you were attempting to be serious.”
“I am,” he said. “As the grave. If someone is out to kill me, I have no doubt you’ll uncover the scoundrel.”
What an odd gentleman. His personality didn’t fit together as neatly as she had expected. He was a determined and arrogant flirt, that much was certain, but he also spoke with her at times as if he considered her an intellectual equal. He felt keen appreciation for the superficial charms of beautiful women, as evidenced in his obvious admiration for Isabella, but he had just told Lydia she had pretty eyes and he seemed to have meant that, too.
Most puzzling of all, he seemed both fascinated by her investigation and convinced she had what it took to conclude it.
Perhaps he was too fascinated.
&nbs
p; “I have a theory,” Lydia said. Nerves fizzled through her, and her heart picked up speed.
Mr. Pemberton looked at her, eyes bright with interest.
“You didn’t like the curate,” she said.
“As we’ve discussed,” he agreed with a nod.
“And yet it seems important to you to be seen, at least by me, as being convinced he was willfully murdered. You’ve also made it clear you are interested in punishing his killer.”
“Justice demands it.”
She tightened her fingers against her lap. The worn gray cotton of her dress bunched easily beneath her fingertips.
“You’re strong enough to have driven a knitting needle through a man’s heart,” she continued, choosing each word with care. “You cannot account for your whereabouts when he was murdered.”
“You still think I killed him?” Mr. Pemberton’s eyes widened, incredulous. “When I was almost murdered myself, not a day ago?”
“That’s the part I find puzzling,” she said. “You were poisoned, and yet you didn’t die. If the doctor is to be believed, you won’t suffer serious long-term effects from your ordeal.”
The space between them, which had seemed so vast a few moments ago, now felt like not nearly enough. A man of Mr. Pemberton’s height could cross it in an instant.
Her heart pounded, but she kept her eyes on his face, alert to any trace of guilt.
“I think it’s possible that you killed the curate, then poisoned yourself to avoid any possible stain of suspicion.”
“You think I would go to so much trouble after the constable already ruled Mr. Stewart’s death a robbery gone wrong?”
“You knew I didn’t believe that,” she said. “You knew I was searching for the truth. Indeed, you’re the only person who knew aside from Isabella, and she was with her father during the curate’s murder.”
He stared at her, looking almost impressed. “You throw around accusations as if they were seeds at a wedding.”
“I haven’t accused you of anything,” Lydia said levelly. “I only said it was possible.”
Across the room, the lilac-painted clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten. The family would be here any moment. She didn’t want to be caught here alone with Mr. Pemberton, on so-called parish business or otherwise.
