CHAPTER 29
Lyndy, reading an article about an American jockey over Alice’s shoulder, glanced up as Papa entered the drawing room. Despite the gong, Papa was still wearing his tweeds. Normally Lyndy wouldn’t have cared less for Papa’s sudden disregard for etiquette, but they might be late for the engagement party at Pilley Manor. Stella might take it the wrong way.
“Papa?” Lyndy said, exchanging a concerned glance with Alice. They’d both noticed Papa’s slack jaw and sallow coloring.
“Gone,” Papa whispered, his voice hoarse and disbelieving. Alice set aside her magazine, jumped up, and took Papa’s arm. She led him toward the sofa. He shuffled and stumbled like a man twice his age. “All gone.”
“What is gone, Papa?” Alice asked.
What was he talking about? The money from the estate? That was old news. Wasn’t that why Mother had wanted Lyndy to marry Stella in the first place? And now Mother wanted Lyndy to marry Philippa. When had she become so duplicitous?
I mustn’t dwell on that, right now.
“Miss Kendrick should’ve taken Lady Philippa’s advice—” Mother said, as she strode into the room. Her gray silk gown reflected the dour expression of her face. Lyndy cared little for what she was talking about. It was obvious she was praising Philippa at Stella’s expense. It had been Mother’s way since Lord Fairbrother died, making Philippa a very wealthy widow. Mother, adjusting one of her dangling pearl earrings, took one look at Papa and scowled. “William, why aren’t you—”
Papa groaned and clutched his arm. Alice hadn’t the strength to keep him upright, and they fumbled against the side table. The Tiffany table lamp, a green and blue mosaic of leaded glass, tottered, and the dragonflies on the shade threatened to take flight. Mother secured the lamp as Lyndy bolted from his seat to do the same for Papa. But Lyndy was too late. Papa crumpled toward the ground.
“William!”
“Papa!”
Lyndy dove headfirst, his knees connecting hard with the ungiving wooden floor beyond the carpet, hoping to cushion Papa’s fall. Sliding under his shoulders, Lyndy caught Papa’s head inches from the floor. Lyndy eased them both into a more comfortable position and cradled his groaning father in his lap. Perspiration dripped down Papa’s face. Red indentations, probably from wearing his magnifying spectacle-mount loupes so much, stretched across the bridge of Papa’s nose. Papa and Professor Gridley had been too much in the study staring at bones.
But surely this isn’t about a bit of eye strain?
Mother pressed the bell while shouting at the first servant who passed the open door to telephone the doctor. Lyndy loosened Papa’s cravat, feeling his father’s heart pound as if trying to burst from his chest. Papa’s hand shot up and clutched at Lyndy, pulling him by the lapels down to him. His breath smelled of scotch and grew more ragged as he struggled to form words. He sputtered and gasped instead. Lyndy held his ear to his father’s mouth, but it was no use.
“Get him up. Get him up,” Mother insisted, motioning to Fulton the moment the butler arrived. Fulton rushed over, unceremoniously snatched Papa’s hands and pulled while Lyndy heaved his father from behind. Papa did nothing to help them. Fulton dragged as Lyndy pushed and the two managed to hoist Papa onto the sofa. He flopped, like a rag doll, into the corner.
Was Papa delirious? What had happened to reduce him to this pathetic state? Had he lost his mind? Or was he having some sort of seizure?
“Are you in pain, Papa?” Alice asked as she settled in beside him, dabbing his forehead with her handkerchief. Papa groaned, and Lyndy took that as a yes.
“Should I fetch the aspirin powder?” Fulton asked. “Dr. Johnstone prescribed some for one of the staff. I’m quite certain the maid didn’t use all of it.”
“As fast as you can,” Lyndy barked. Fulton hastened off as fast as decorum would allow. Blast decorum. Fulton wasn’t moving swiftly enough. “Run, man, run.”
“Whatever is the matter with him?” Mother said, pacing back and forth in front of the cold fireplace.
The rain earlier had sent a chill through the house, but Mother had refused to order a fire. Until Lyndy was wed and could pay off Papa’s debt, she insisted on this bothersome economy. Despite Papa’s feverish condition, Lyndy was certain they were all in need of some comforting warmth, including Mother. Although she’d not yet approached Papa, Lyndy had never seen his mother so worried. He could hear her quick, labored breathing as she paced. How often had she scolded him as he paced, insisting he be still? Perhaps they weren’t so very different, after all?
Suddenly Mother halted midstep, clenched fists at her sides, and shouted, “Where is Dr. Johnstone?”
“He’s on his way, my lady,” Fulton answered, scooting across the room, almost comically, and handing Lyndy the aspirin powder dissolved in a glass. If Papa’s condition wasn’t so serious, Lyndy might’ve laughed.
Lyndy put the glass to Papa’s lips, watching helplessly as some of the precious liquid dribbled down his father’s chin. Mother, seeing this, shouldered her way between them.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, must I do everything?”
Lyndy gladly relinquished the glass as she propped Papa’s head up. With her lips pinched in concentration, Mother made sure the rest made it past Papa’s lips. Lyndy stood back, hoping the medicine would do some good.
Now all they could do was wait.
As Mother nudged Alice aside, settling into the sofa, Lyndy took up the task of pacing, from the southern windows to the eastern windows and back. His mind swirled with concern: for Papa; for Stella, who was having to greet her arriving guests alone and would be fraught with worry; for himself, should Papa not recover. Lyndy didn’t want to think about what the death duties and Mother’s grief would do to his future, let alone how much he’d miss the infuriating blighter.
“Sit down, Lyndy. You’re not a feral cat,” Mother chided. “Besides, you’re disturbing your father.” Lyndy regarded his father. Although his breathing had improved, Papa didn’t look like anything would disturb him ever again.
“My God, what happened?” Professor Gridley, dressed for dinner, rushed to Papa’s side the moment he stepped in the room. He knelt before him, as Mother tilted her nose in the air, disapproving of the American’s emotional display. Or was it Professor Gridley she objected to? Mother had never been fond of the paleontologist, who shamelessly took Papa’s money when it was needed to run the estate.
“He collapsed,” she said. “We’ve sent for the doctor. There is no need for you to scuff your trousers, Professor.” Professor Gridley, using the end of the sofa, hauled himself up. But he was still shaking his head.
“I was just with him. I’ve been with him all day. He seemed fine.”
“And he will be fine,” Mother insisted. “Though his days of fussing over dusty old bones may be over.” As if the two weren’t mutually exclusive. If Papa recovered, he would do so to study his fossils again. Take that away, and he’d never be the same.
“He mentioned something before he collapsed,” Lyndy said. “He insisted something was gone. You were with him. Do you know what he meant?”
Professor Gridley’s mouth gaped open. “No,” he exclaimed under his breath. “No, it can’t be.” Without explanation or excuse, he bolted from the room.
“I will never get used to these Americans,” Mother snapped, her fear for Father hidden behind her annoyance at the professor’s breach in etiquette. “Not even a by-your-leave, he goes racing out of the room. He didn’t even answer your question.”
Professor Gridley’s abrupt departure had reminded Lyndy of Stella’s often impulsive behavior, but that didn’t bode well. Professor Gridley, if he were anything like Stella, wouldn’t be bearing good news when he returned.
“Out of my way, I say,” a deep voice barked at the servants clustered outside the door. Word had spread that the earl had collapsed.
“Dr. Johnstone.” Fulton announced the physician, a pudgy fellow in his late fifties with a white musta
che and round face.
“Good lord, Fulton, what is going on here?” the physician said as if blaming the butler for his master’s distress. Fulton, a pained expression wrinkling his brow, merely stepped out of the physician’s way.
Dr. Johnstone marched across the room to his patient, pulling a stethoscope from his leather bag as he went. He shooed Mother and Alice away, demanding they give Papa some air. Both women scuttled away without complaint. The physician’s brusque manner belied a well-trained mind and a kind heart. He’d been the family physician all Lyndy’s life.
After a quick examination, of pulse, eyes, heart, he removed the stethoscope from around his neck and folded it back into his bag.
“His Lordship will recover, but he needs rest.” No one smiled, no one cried, no one clapped their hands in joy. Yet the relief in the room was palpable.
Lyndy sighed in quiet gratitude. If only Stella were here. She’d be able to express her elation properly, and they would all be better for it.
“I must insist on this, Lady Atherly.”
“Of course, Doctor.”
“What caused it?” Lyndy asked. Dr. Johnstone grew thoughtful, opened his mouth, and then clamped his lips into a hard frown. Lyndy followed the physician’s gaze.
Professor Gridley, taking even Fulton unawares, had lumbered slowly, silently into the room. With his shoulders bent, he stared at his unpolished shoes as he walked, almost bumping into the astonished butler.
“I say, are you ill, man?” Dr. Johnstone asked.
Professor Gridley raised his head, his eyes dull and unseeing when they were usually so lively and bright. It was disconcerting, especially so soon after Papa’s narrow escape.
“Bloody hell, Professor, tell us what happened,” Lyndy said, recognizing the same grief-stricken look on Papa’s face.
“The Fort Union Formation maps, the Equus spelaeus tooth, and”—the professor paused—“every last Miohippus atherli specimen I brought. I say Miohippus atherli because I was going to name it after His Lordship, you see.”
“No, we do not see,” Mother said. “Speak English, Professor.”
“His Lordship’s fossils, Lady Atherly, the ones I brought from the expedition in Wyoming,” Professor Gridley clarified, unfazed by Mother’s deriding tone. “They’re all gone. Someone has broken into the study and stolen everything.”
* * *
Stella was not enjoying herself. How could she be? Aunt Rachel was in bed with a head cold. Daddy had disappeared, reappeared, and disappeared again. Harry Finn, Lyndy’s valet who was graciously helping Tims serve at the table, had arrived hours ago. Where was everyone else from Morrington Hall? When the first unfamiliar carriage rolled up, even the stoic, cold Tims bestowed her a look of pity before opening the door. She had dreaded this evening, but she never imagined this. Still, she’d plastered a smile on her face and began greeting her guests, alone.
“How lovely you look in blue, Lady So-and-so. How clever of you to snatch up La Roche’s latest foal, Sir Such-and-such. Wasn’t the rain today dreadful, Mrs. Socialite-invited-only-to-please-Lady-Atherly?”
And with each confused, condescending, or curious remark about the conspicuously absent groom and his family, Stella would laugh and say, “I told them to arrive later so I could have you all to myself.” Except when she’d greeted Mr. Barlow. To him, when he asked, she simply shrugged before welcoming the next guest. She hoped to avoid the plant hunter as much as possible.
Whether her harmless pleasantry soothed her guests’ ruffled feathers, Stella could only guess.
“They’re here,” a high-pitched voice whispered loudly from behind.
Stella turned to see Ethel’s capped head disappear behind the kitchen door. Dear Ethel. She understood Stella’s distress. They’d spent hours picking out the right dress, a rose-colored silk with lace sleeves, floral metallic thread embroidery, and a flowing train from the House of Worth, picking out the right jewelry, dangling emerald and gold earrings, a matching necklace and hair combs, and commiserating about the importance and strain of the upcoming event. As usual, Ethel had done wonders with Stella’s hair, and even Stella had to admit she looked stunning. But beauty only went so far to excuse this debacle.
Stella strained to see around Baroness Branson-Hill, who was blocking her view of the door. She sighed in relief to see Lyndy, Lady Atherly, and Lady Alice arrive. But where was Lord Atherly? Where was Professor Gridley? She excused herself, to the shock and chagrin of the baroness, and shortened the distance between her and Lyndy as fast as the constraints of her formfitting evening gown would allow.
“I am so happy to see you.” She wanted to scold them for being late. She wanted to demand what had kept them. She wanted to know what was keeping the other men in their party. But one look into Lyndy’s eyes stilled her tongue. “What’s wrong?”
“This is neither the time nor the place to discuss the matter,” Lady Atherly said, handing Tims her silk wrap without so much as a glance. “Suffice it to say, Lord Atherly is indisposed. He and Professor Gridley shan’t be coming.”
Not coming? What happened? Stella looked to Lyndy for an explanation. But they were interrupted.
“There he is, Viscount Lyndhurst,” Baroness Branson-Hill said. She slipped her flabby arm through his. “You’ve been a naughty boy, keeping us all waiting. And to think the rain stopped hours ago.”
Lyndy, a look of long-suffering on his face, allowed her to lead him to the drawing room. Lady Atherly and Lady Alice followed. When Tims informed her that all the guests, except Daddy and Miss Cosslett, had arrived, Stella, wishing she could disappear, grudgingly trailed after them.
Stella mingled, champagne glass in hand, for what seemed like an hour but was perhaps a quarter of that, waiting for the moment she could talk to Lyndy. Every conversation was the same: Wasn’t it sad circumstances that kept Lady Philippa at home? How kind of Stella to invite Mr. Barlow; he was such an entertaining fellow. Where was Mr. Kendrick, their host? Where was Lord Atherly? To the former Stella bit her tongue and kept her opinions of Lady Philippa and Mr. Barlow to herself. To the latter, she begged ignorance. She had no idea where her father had gone off to or what kept Lord Atherly at home. It was trying, smiling and nodding and saying next to nothing at all. But Jane Cosslett wasn’t here, thankfully, recording her every word, and so far, no one had pegged Stella with questions about the murders.
“Forgive me, Reverend Paine. May I steal Lord Lyndhurst from you for a moment?”
She’d sighted Lyndy talking to Lord Montagu and the bishop of Winchester but hadn’t interrupted. Lady Atherly had been adamant that a proper hostess didn’t intrude on a gentleman’s conversation. But when Reverend Paine, the local vicar, started up a conversation with Lyndy, she jumped at her opportunity. The vicar was as trying at a party as he was in the pulpit. Another guest Lady Atherly had insisted on.
“Of course, dear child,” Reverend Paine said patronizingly. “He is your fiancé, after all.”
“For better or worse,” someone uttered. Both Stella and Lyndy turned to see who’d made the remark, but it was too large a gathering. It could’ve been anyone. Stella turned back to the vicar and forced a smile.
“Though you haven’t set a date, have you?” Reverend Paine said as if he hadn’t heard. “I’m still waiting.”
“Yes. I’ll speak to Daddy about it. Thank you. Excuse us.”
Stella smiled and nodded her way through the crowd, her arm tucked through Lyndy’s. The men smiled back, their most enthusiastic, generous smiles, but the women raised the corners of their pinched lips, their eyes often reflecting emotions other than goodwill. Stella couldn’t wait to have a few minutes alone. She led him across the hall to the library and shut the door.
“I need—”
With the words barely out of her mouth, Lyndy’s arms were around her. He pulled her toward him, his hand warm on the nape of her neck, and their lips melted together. All thoughts of Lord Atherly’s absence, the strain of the evening, e
ven those of Harvey and Lord Fairbrother flew from her mind, leaving only the need for Lyndy and the desire to stay this way forever. But it had to end. When he lifted his head away from hers, a thoughtful expression on his face, she blushed.
“Well, that isn’t what I brought you in here for.”
“But you weren’t explicit in what you needed, either. What kind of gentleman would I be if I denied you this basic need?” His smirk belied the affection in his eyes.
“True.” Laughter lit his eyes, and he kissed her again.
He lingered, nibbling the lobe of her ear. Tingles coursed down her whole body. “What is it you do need?”
Stella sighed. She didn’t want to spoil the moment, but it was already too late. Thoughts of murder, missing fathers, and foreboding of the tedious night ahead, banished for a few luscious moments, swirled again in her head.
“What happened to your father and Professor Gridley?”
“Of course. How callous of me not to tell you right away.” Stella didn’t remind him it was his mother’s doing, but patiently waited for him to tell the story. As they pulled apart, he tugged down on the cuffs of his black dress jacket.
“Someone stole all of Papa’s fossils.”
“Oh, no.” Stella’s covered her mouth with her fingers.
She knew how precious those bones were to Lord Atherly. She knew what lengths he’d gone to to get them. She knew they were the reason she and Lyndy were engaged in the first place. She could only imagine how devastated he must be.
“And the shock of it all was too much for him to bear.”
Lyndy described his father’s collapse and the subsequent visit from the doctor, who assured them Lord Atherly would recover physically from the trauma. But mentally, Stella wasn’t so sure. In the months she’d been in England, Stella had learned much about Lord Atherly’s passion for discovering ancient and extinct horse fossils and much about the earl himself. His intellect, his wit, his well-hidden gentleness all reminded her of Lyndy. And this blow might be too much.
Murder at Blackwater Bend Page 24
