“There is no us!” he growled. “Must I remind you in front of my guests?”
She advanced on him. “I am not without friends at court and can amuse myself while you tend to the Queen’s needs.” She was a sassy wench, acting as if they were a couple.
“You are delusional and if you weren’t Lady Caroline’s only living relative I would not tolerate you for an instant longer. I am still the Prime Minister and when Her Royal Highness requires my presence I obey.”
“I may have heard a rumor about a murder, but the rumormonger did not tell me who the victim is or was. Who has been killed?” the butterfly demanded all but stomping her foot.
Granny, Lord Melbourne, Florence and I cut our eyes to Lady Beryl. Did the woman speak out of turn, and share news of the murder with this fluttering insect? The gossip would soon be flying throughout the entire kingdom—one of the Queen’s companions had been stabbed to death right at the door to Queen Victoria’s private salon.
I must admit I was temporarily baffled; if Lady Beryl was the killer wouldn’t she wish to keep the slaying behind Palace doors? But if she was a wily woman—how best to appear innocent than to gossip about her crime? Had she informed Mrs. Ponsonby of the dreadfulness of last night?
While Lord Melbourne prepared for an extended stay in London, we ladies dined on cold pheasant, summer squash and green beans. The footman served fresh lemonade, which satisfied our thirst, and after a short interval we were allowed time to care for private lady matters before we boarded the royal coach. For some reason it was important to Lord Melbourne that we not share the name of the murder victim with Mrs. Ponsonby and so we avoided answering her question.
To our collective dismay, Mrs. Ponsonby began to whine. It was a sound both irritating and injurious to my ears. I briefly thought of bouncing my India rubber ball off her nose, but she was indirectly related to Lord M—that was the only thing that saved her from grievous injury.
The woman caused such a scene that Lord Melbourne agreed to take her. Evidently, he had a weakness for whining women. Since one carriage would not hold the entire party, the Brocket Hall coach was brought into play. Lord Melbourne assisted Lady Beryl into the carriage and then helped Mrs. Ponsonby. The woman looked pleased as punch until Lord M slammed the coach door, banging the side to signal the driver.
The coach lurched away, with the butterfly woman calling something out the window. It was barely understandable as Lord Melbourne leapt into the carriage with us taking the seat formerly occupied by Lady Beryl.
The poor man sighed as he fell back in his seat. “What a relief! That woman will be the death of me. Now Miss Nightingale please elaborate on what you know and what you sense.” The expression on Florence’s face reminded me of my cat Diana finding the occasional herring dropped in her bowl. My friend loved nothing more than to parse a mystery.
Chapter 9
Once again marveling over little me riding in one of the Queen’s royal carriages, now with the Prime Minister, I gloried in the power of wishing. Leaning my head back I took comfort in the sound of Granny’s light snoring.
It was a brilliant arrangement. With Clinging Cecile and the Mad Murderess following in Lord Melbourne’s carriage there was time for us to share suspicions in private. Since I was not conversant in royal politics I attempted to listen and learn, but the steady drone of Florence’s voice and the rocking of the coach set my mind adrift.
For some weird reason my thoughts touched on Roger Broadribbs. What an adventure this was becoming and without that possessive nincompoop tagging along! He could not possibly worm his way into this case, not now that Lord Melbourne and everyone who would listen was aware that we were not betrothed. How dare he start that rumor? Roger had attached himself to me when we were children protecting me from real and imagined dangers. There were times when his devotion became a true annoyance.
Our escape from Derbyshire had worked out perfectly. I closed my eyes since the sun was shining blindingly on my side of the carriage. Soon I was recalling how this trip had all come together.
Two days before in response to Florence’s urgent message, Granny and I left for Lea Hurst, which was but a short carriage ride. My friend greeted us so warmly I wondered if Granny and I might be showing symptoms of illness. Miss Florence Nightingale is not naturally demonstrative, and only shows affection to the sick, injured, and Athena.
Instead of inviting us into the house, Florence immediately suggested we walk in the gardens. “Ever since the letter arrived on royal stationery, my parents have been sniffing about like hunting dogs on the scent of a hare. Let us step behind the hedges and I shall read you what Her Majesty wrote.”
We rounded a full shrubbery and entered a tall maze. “How will we find our way out?” Granny asked, a little discombobulated.
“Whenever you stumble into a muddle or maze, keep your left hand on one side no matter what, that way you will always find your way home.” Florence had smiled, a rare thing indeed. “It is a well-known survival technique.”
“I’ve lived all these years and did not know that.” Granny’s eyes had lit up as she watched Florence reach in her pocket to remove the missive. “Does the Queen mention Lord Melbourne?”
Unfolding the paper, Florence began to read aloud. The letter was written in the royal we form and I had to remind myself that it did not mean the Queen was including anyone else in her correspondence; it was just the way she spoke.
“Dear Miss Nightingale,
It seems like only yesterday that we had the pleasure of your company and that of Miss Throckmorten and Mrs. Throckmorten.”
“We are writing to you to impose on your good heart. A situation has arisen or rather has broken through its thin veil. Before we proceed, please feel free to share this letter with Miss Throckmorten as it does involve her. But please keep all our concerns between us for the knowledge contained could be dangerous to the stability of the empire, besides there are tender feelings involved.”
Florence pressed the paper to her bosom. “I must have a promise from both of you that the following shall remain a secret between the three of us—I am including Mrs. Throckmorten. It goes no further; on your honor.”
“I shan’t tell a soul. I promise!” I said.
“My lips are sealed with sealing wax,” Granny said through her taught gums.
Florence continued to read the letter.
“You may have heard rumors regarding Lord Melbourne’s wife. We shan’t go into specifics here other than to say the lady had been involved in one of the most scandalous affairs of our century. Her selfish actions caused His Lordship great grief, which he was forced to bear in the theater of public opinion. She died some years ago, her death hastened by drink and drugs.
There were no surviving children and so William Lamb, Lord Melbourne is without family. We are most concerned about his welfare, for since early August he has taken to his home at Brocket Hall and is receiving few visitors. As monarch, our position does not allow us to visit him and he avoids requests to attend us at court claiming ill health.”
Pausing, Florence studied me, knowing full well what my reaction would be for she was aware of my tender feelings for the gentleman. A smile tweaked the corners of her lips as she looked at Granny who appeared about to climb into Florence’s mouth to pull out the rest of the story.
“Yes? Yes? Read on!” My grandmother urged. Lord Melbourne was young enough to be her son and old enough to be my father, but His Lordship brought out the caring side in women.
“Mrs. Throckmorten! You risk apoplexy. Please calm down.”
Scanning the garden to be certain we had not picked up eavesdroppers, for they were like fleas, though unseen they were always able to draw blood, Florence continued reading,
“His Lordship’s love for his deceitful wife remains constant and unfailing, although she died over a decade ago. We are certain he carries a melancholy that is depleting his wellbeing.”
Granny gasped, dabbing her lips with her han
dkerchief.
“Frequently during the weeks after his return from Greece, he mentioned the delight he took in the company of you three ladies, most particularly Miss Throckmorten. He often remarked on her humor and spirit, stating how the young lady’s comical doings had lifted his own spirits. He went so far as to say if he had a daughter, he hoped she would have possessed the amusing disposition of Miss Poppy.
“He would not extend an invitation himself as he has withdrawn into a shell like a tortoise; but we are taking the liberty of inviting you to his estate at Brocket Hall. Your positive response to our request would be a favor most appreciated. The wisest course of action is to have you first come to Buckingham Palace where we shall have time to prepare. The following day you will travel to Lord Melbourne’s estate for an extended stay.”
My grandmother wore a grin that traveled from one side curl to the other.
“In order to respond to the Queen’s summons we must address our parental muddle—” Florence began only to be cut off by Granny.
“I know! I know!” Granny cried. “Since we are in a muddle we must keep our hand on the left side at all times.” She paused looking a bit puzzled. “The left side of what?”
The expression on Florence’s face was one of both tolerance and trepidation. She later whispered to me her concerns lest her parents think Granny a bit too addled to act as our chaperone. The prior trip to London and then Greece was so quickly orchestrated they did not have time to question my grandmother’s mental state which often took the form of a tangle of yarn—if one found the beginning, there was no assurance the end would reveal itself.
“I must be firm with my parents, although they cannot direct me to refuse a royal invitation, they may try,” Florence had said. “They will ask if your parents have given their consent,” she raised one eyebrow in a pointed arch. “Without lying we must let my parents assume that your parents will approve provided your grandmother acts as chaperone once again. We do not wish to be encumbered by either set of parents as escorts.”
“That would be a nightmare,” I mumbled.
“Mrs. Throckmorten,” Florence addressed Granny in a serious tone. “It is most important that you carry yourself as a no-nonsense guardian. When we speak to my parents please conduct yourself in such a manner that even my mother would fear you. Can you do that?”
Granny balled up her fists, braced her feet, and amazingly converted her kindly face to that of a fierce dowager bulldog. If I didn’t know better I would have been afraid of her.
Chapter 10
We three conspirators had strolled through the garden and into the conservatory door. All was quiet. I had been in Florence’s home numerous times, and loved the sunny setting, with the décor more French than English. Most of the furnishings were in white oak, with pale pink and blue fabrics. It was a happy house—until Florence and her mother locked horns.
Even as I thought that thought, Mrs. Nightingale appeared at the end of the hall.
“Florence, you have guests! Why did you not bring them to greet us?” The words had been light but her tone carried a dark rebuke.
“My apologies, Mother. We walked through the garden. I wished to show the Throckmortens your lovely autumn arrangements.”
Florence’s compliment turned her mother’s frown into the semblance of a smile. “It is lovely to see you again, Mrs. Throckmorten and Miss Throckmorten. You should visit more often.” Her words had reeked of insincerity.
“Join me in the parlor. I shall ring for tea.” Fanny Nightingale performed as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but question marks danced in her eyes. Mr. Nightingale glanced up from his newspaper at the sound of his wife’s voice. He stood to greet Granny and me.. “Miss Throckmorten, is it possible you have grown an inch or two since we last saw you? Why I imagine we shall be hearing of your engagement before this season is over.”
His pointed words were directed at Florence and had little to do with me. I bit my tongue but the sass just slipped out of my mouth. “I seriously doubt that will ever happen. I have no interest in becoming a broodmare for some spoiled gentleman.” I grinned in an effort to add humor to my words in the face of his frown.
Mrs. Nightingale shot a glance at Florence wondering who had indoctrinated whom. It was clear that she seethed over her daughter’s most recent rejection of Richard Monckton Milnes’ offer. She hadn’t said a word about it and yet it was as if an elephant rested on the settee but no one wished to call attention to it.
Sitting in a pale pink chair, her back ramrod straight, and her voluminous skirt spread about her, I could not help but compare Mrs. Nightingale to my mother. Who was the more formidable, my mother or Fanny Nightingale? If I had to bet my pin money, I would choose Florence’s mother for she was a world traveler schooled in the verbal arts. My mama was merely a social climber with a marriageable daughter.
Adroitly skipping the topic of marriage, Mrs. Nightingale drove her spear into the heart of our little gathering. “Now that your friends are here, have you decided to share the contents of Her Majesty’s letter with your parents?”
Guessing that her mother might make an attempt to snatch the letter, Florence took Athena from her pocket and held her level with her bosom. A quick movement toward my friend would result in a nipped finger—anyone acquainted with Athena, knew the risk.
Mrs. Nightingale sighed, resigned to learning only what Florence would share.
Kissing Athena gently on the top of her head the little owl rubbed her beak on her mistress’s cheek. “Queen Victoria has requested Miss Throckmorten and Mrs. Throckmorten join me in returning to London as soon as possible.”
The Nightingales exchanged unhappy looks.
“I am not permitted to tell you any more than that. I don’t even know how long we will be gone.” Taking one finger she gently stroked Athena’s back. “All I can say is that it is a serious matter that could affect the future of England.”
“Preposterous!” snapped her mother. “You are a mere girl not yet in your twentieth year, of what assistance can you be to the Queen?”
“Fanny?” Mr. Nightingale called. It was a telling thing for him to call his wife by her first name in front of company—telling in that it showed he had come to think of Granny and me as family. Further, by addressing his wife in the familiar he appeared to be giving Florence his permission to take on the venture; it was as if he were putting Mrs. Nightingale in her place—on her fanny. I swallowed a chuckle.
Not to let go until the last bit of juice was squeezed from the dispute, Mrs. Nightingale had addressed Granny, “Your son and daughter have given their consent for Miss Throckmorten to return to London?”
I remembered how Granny had squinted her eyes and lowered her brow, attempting to come up with the best possible non-lie. “Would I be here at Lea Hurst, if we were not in harmony?”
Granny and I had never been in what one would call harmony with my parents but the semi-fib served its purpose. I was pretty certain this was not the first little white lie my grandmother had conjured and it wasn’t quite a lie, it was just a slightly bent-truth.
“I will pen a response to the Queen and send it by special courier this evening. We must inform her that we are on our way. Father will you please summon a rider?”
Roger popped into my mind unbidden. When he does then it’s time to worry. Blessedly Florence seemed to read my thoughts. “Her Majesty has commanded that our visit be held in secrecy. We are to tell no one except our parents. Please keep the Queen’s confidence! Tell no one, most particularly the Broadribbs.”
Mrs. Nightingale adjusted her posture, sitting even more erect if that was possible.
“Of course! What do you take me for? A gossip?” She placed her hands in her lap, and narrowed her eyes looking like Diana when she has been thwarted from catching a bird. “Why would I chat with the Broadribbs? I barely know them!” Her defensive demeanor spoke more than her words.
Chapter 11
Once the Nightingales had re
luctantly given their permission, Florence escorted us out the front door. We paused midway between the house and my parents’ carriage—out of hearing distance. “I will inform Queen Victoria that we shall be available to travel the day after tomorrow. That will allow us time to prepare. I suggest given the circumstances, that you bring a least three day dresses, and two ball gowns. The weather will be turning chilly in the next few weeks, so warm cloaks and winter bonnets would be a wise addition.”
Granny was so excited she had taken to hugging herself. Florence cast her a stern look. “Remember, there should be no mention of Lord Melbourne. We are responding to an invitation from the Queen, nothing more.”
We returned to Evensong. My parents’ blessings were not so easily given because I had not shared much tittle-tattle from our first expedition to Athens. My mother felt deprived of the gossip she thought she had earned by allowing me to accompany Florence. Getting permission for a second mysterious journey with no explanation proved to be a bit like rolling a huge rock up a steep hill.
Using another of Florence’s stratagems, I acted as if our trip was a foregone conclusion. “You are not to tell anyone that we are in London, nor our reason for being there,” I instructed Mama. “We are all sworn to secrecy. The Queen hinted at leaky lips being thrown in the dungeon at the Black Tower, but I can’t say for certain she would do that to the only parents I possess.”
My mother’s face turned an odd shade of pea-green and dusty rose, causing her to blend into the wallpaper in the parlor. “You have not informed me of your reason for going to London!” Lovely! She had given her permission, if not directly.
“Now Maddie, stay calm,” Granny said, “We have been commanded by Her Majesty to help in an important assignment. This is not something to be taken lightly.” She waved her pale hand in my direction. “Poppy has so impressed Queen Victoria with her wit and courage, that she has particularly requested her help. And of course, she wishes me to accompany the girls as my years of experience are of value to Her Majesty.”
Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set Page 22
