Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cordelia Simpson checked her face in the compact mirror. “Oh, I do wish we might have stopped at Liberty’s this morning, Cousin. I really wanted to purchase a copy of the latest issue of Mrs. Beecher’s Young Lady’s Journal. She gives the best advice, you know. My friend Adelaide Cooper-Smith insists that only through such diligent study and practise can one attract the eye of the right sort of fellow.”

  “And I suppose you think Lord Aubrey is the right fellow?” Lady Cartringham asked as their carriage turned down The Strand. “Delia, whilst I confess the earl would make a fine catch, as they say, is he not a trifle old for you?”

  “Nonsense, my dear!” the seventeen-year-old protested. “He may be a little older than myself, but he looks quite young.”

  “He is over thirty, Cordelia. In fact, he’s probably twice your age.”

  “For now, perhaps, he is, but the duchess is marrying the earl’s cousin, and she is only a few years older than I. Are not the earl and marquess the same age?”

  “Yes, I’m told they are, but...”

  “No objections will ever alter my mind, Cousin Margaret. Father rather likes the earl actually. I wrote to him right after the play on Tuesday night, and his reply arrived this morning. He approves of Lord Aubrey. In fact, he and mother are coming down to London for the wedding, so it’s all arranged. I just need to catch his eye, that’s all. And since the duchess has been under the weather of late...”

  “And you would know this how?”

  “I have my contacts,” she answered mysteriously, pinching her cheeks to add a hint of colour.

  “And who might that be?” the countess asked, a trifle irritated. “Don’t do that, Delia! You’re breaking blood vessels!”

  “Yes, but it makes my cheeks look rather fetching, don’t you think? If you must know, though, my new lady’s maid, Letitia, was at a music hall the same night we attended that awful play, and she just happened to sit with several of the Queen Anne maids. Apparently, the younger members of the staff were there, enjoying a night out, and one of the new hires had a great deal to share about the duchess and her deliciously handsome cousins.”

  “Gossip between households is never a good idea, Delia. When you have your own home to run, you’ll understand just how disruptive malicious chinwagging can be,” the countess said sternly. Then leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, she whispered, “So, what did this maid say?”

  Cordelia powdered her nose with a small woolen puff and then placed it into a jewelled cosmetic case inside her handbag. “Well, it seems that both the Stuarts...” she began, but her cousin interrupted.

  “Lord Haimsbury is a Sinclair, my dear.”

  “Yes, but he is the duke’s nephew, is he not? And I imagine that he’ll eventually inherit the ducal title—unless Paul does.”

  “Paul? Did Lord Aubrey say you may call him by his Christian name, my dear?”

  “No,” she admitted, her blue eyes round with innocence. “He did not, but I’m sure he’d enjoy it, if I did call him that. It’s a lovely name. Simple yet masculine. Paul,” she repeated. “Oh, here we are! I’m sure the duchess will appreciate our paying a call. After all, she practically invited us on Tuesday, did she not?”

  “I believe Elizabeth said only that she looked forward to seeing us on Sunday, when you sing at Drummond Chapel.”

  “Isn’t it the same thing? Sunday is in a few days. We’re merely early. A bit. Anyway, with the wedding so close, I’m sure she’d appreciate having a younger opinion on her dress. All she has is her aunt, I mean. Lady Victoria must be eighty.”

  “She is a year older than myself, Delia. Don’t be rude. Ah, look! The gardens here are spectacular, are they not?”

  “I suppose so,” the teenager replied distractedly. “I say, Maggie my dear, isn’t that the duchess there, by the little pond?”

  “I believe it is,” Countess Cartringham replied as their carriage swept towards the main entry of the mansion. “I’ve always admired this home. It is nearly as grand as Branham Hall. Have you ever been there, Delia?”

  “The one in Kent? No, but I cannot imagine its being any nicer than this. I wonder what Aubrey House is like.”

  “Not even half this size. Small for a London home, actually.” Their carriage began to slow, and three men rushed towards them. “Now, that is style! Two footmen and a groom to meet us. I wonder just how she can afford to keep both homes fully staffed year ‘round.”

  “She is rich, that’s how,” Delia declared. “I’m sure Lord Aubrey is quite rich, also, but perhaps not as wealthy as Lord Haimsbury. I heard that he is the wealthiest peer in England.”

  A liveried footman had reached their door, and he opened it widely, offering the ladies a bright smile. “Welcome to Queen Anne House,” he told them. “May I ask your names?”

  “Countess Cartringham, young man. And this is my cousin, Lady Cordelia Simpson. Is the duchess receiving this afternoon?”

  “She is, my lady,” the young man replied as the second footman helped both women from the interior and onto the gravel drive. Cordelia stepped up onto the portico, turning to gaze at the magnificent grounds, picturing herself as mistress of all she surveyed and married to Lord Aubrey, his arms ‘round her waist, whispering into her ear as half a dozen servants unloaded box after box of hats, shoes, and dresses from Harrods.

  Her cousin followed, and the front door opened. John Miles bowed. “Good afternoon, Lady Cartringham. Lady Cordelia. It’s a pleasure to welcome you both to Queen Anne House. I shall send a footman to fetch the duchess at once. Is she expecting you?”

  Mr. Lester took Cordelia’s velvet wrap and Cartringham’s fur-trimmed cloak. The countess removed her gloves but kept her hat. “We are a surprise, Miles. I’ve not been here for two years. Not since that dinner party to raise funds for the orphans’ home. Her Grace sang, I believe.”

  “You have an excellent memory, my lady,” Miles replied. “Mr. Lester, would you let Her Grace know that she has guests? Lady Cartringham, may I offer you refreshments? I believe Cook has prepared a lovely citrus punch for the family. Also, we can offer many different teas, coffee, or sparkling water. The duchess does not generally enjoy wines in the afternoon.”

  “The punch sounds most refreshing,” Cartringham replied as she and Cordelia walked into the broad, red and yellow drawing room. One of two west drawing rooms, connected by pocket doors, the red walls made the white painted mouldings seem that much brighter, and the Italian marble fireplace shone as if a dozen hands had just that moment polished it. Six upholstered chairs, three sofas, and a variety of smaller chairs provided ample seating for guests, and a round table near the south window served as a place to talk, eat, or play a game. The walls held an array of portraits, mostly landscapes of the many Branham properties, but over the great fireplace hung a portrait of Elizabeth at eleven.

  “Is that the duchess?” Cordelia asked as she wandered about the room, touching everything she could reach. “It must be quite wonderful to inherit an important title. I find it rather tedious to have but one option: marry or remain an impoverished nobody for the rest of my days.”

  “You are not a nobody, Cordelia,” her cousin chided.

  “But impoverished, certainly,” the girl argued. “Father says he barely keeps body and soul together, and I must make a successful match, or else I’ll have to become or nun or some such awful future.”

  “Now, do not be so maudlin, else even pinched cheeks will fail to lure Lord Aubrey to your side.”

  “What’s this about Lord Aubrey?” a voice asked from the doorway.

  The unexpected guests turned about to find the duchess entering the elegant space, her cheeks naturally pink from a brisk walk, her unbound hair windblown from wearing no hat. “Lady Cartringham and Lady Cordelia, what a pleasant surprise,” the duchess said as she set down a basket of Queen Anne W
hite roses and ivy cuttings. “Do forgive me. I’ve been gathering up flowers for pressing. My cousin Adele is here with us, and she’s trying her hand at preservation techniques. To what do I owe this distinct pleasure, ladies?”

  The countess offered her brightest, warmest smile. “Duchess, we are so very happy to see you looking well. When we heard that you’d suffered a spell of sorts at the theatre, Delia and I decided we must pay a call to make certain of your good health. I’m sure both Lord Haimsbury and his cousin Lord Aubrey have been very worried.”

  Elizabeth sat into a yellow and cream striped chair, placing a small red cushion at her back. “Do sit. Please. I hope Miles has made you welcome.”

  “Your butler is gracious as always, Elizabeth. I believe he’s bringing punch. But you are better, I hope?”

  “Oh, yes. You know, I’m not really sure just why I grew faint on Tuesday. I thought, perhaps, the lighting was too warm. Those new electrics are far too close to the chairs, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve said that very thing to Lord Cartringham,” the countess replied as she and her niece chose to share a red and yellow, flower-print sofa. “I see you’ve installed electrics here. Do you like it?”

  “Very much. I’ve read that London plans to add three new power stations to provide electricity to the entire city. It’s a shame in a way. I do like the convenience, but it’s my understanding that the stations will go up near the river. It seems as if all our scenic parks will soon give way to industry. But it does mean jobs, which is a boon, is it not?”

  “So says my husband,” the countess replied. “Cordelia and I have brought a little gift. It is by way of welcome, you know. We’ve seen so little of you in the past four years, that it’s a joy knowing you’ll remain in London for a while. Unless, of course, you and Lord Haimsbury plan an extended wedding trip.”

  Elizabeth took a moment to reply. Something about the visit struck her as deliberate, and she realised the countess had come to elicit information rather than merely pay a social call. “We’ve not yet decided,” she answered as ambiguously as possible. “We talked about going to Paris and Vienna, perhaps even Portugal, but with Christmas so near, I hate being away from home. It’s a tradition to spend the holidays with the staff at Branham.”

  “Ah, yes, so I recall,” Cartringham said. “Delia, my dear, isn’t your father going to be in London this Christmas? I seem to recall his mentioning a series of meetings. Something about some treaty or other.”

  Cordelia Simpson started to reply, but a footman knocked, and the duchess’s attention turned towards the door.

  “Yes, Stephens?”

  “Punch, my lady. And light refreshments to accompany. Mrs. Smith has added a pot of Darjeeling as well, just in case.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Stephens. Please, thank Mrs. Smith for me. I’ll have the tea, I think. Do you mind pouring? I’m all thumbs this morning.”

  The footman poured two glasses of the citrus punch, handing one to each visitor. “Lord Aubrey has sent word that he is on his way back from Whitehall, my lady. Also, Dr. Price wired that he will arrive in London this afternoon, after three, he thought. And Lord Haimsbury has gone to Lady Morehouses’s home. He expects to return by mid-afternoon. Milk and sugar, as usual, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, please. Are those the apple spice cakes from yesterday?”

  “They are, my lady. And the sandwiches are watercress and Gruyère with butter. Or do you prefer something heartier?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not really hungry. I’ll nibble, though. Thank you, Stephens. I think we can manage from here on out.”

  “Very good, my lady. Ring, should you require anything at all.”

  “A doctor?” Cartringham asked as she relaxed into the sofa’s embrace. “But I thought you said you’re all right, Elizabeth. Tell me that you’ve not grown ill again!”

  “Do I look ill?” she asked, stirring the sugar into her tea. “It’s very sweet of you to worry, Maggie, but Dr. Price is returning to care for our sick maids. We have four maids and a young char who’ve taken ill. Measles. But don’t worry. They are all isolated in the north wing. We’ve two nurses caring for them. Mrs. Meyer, our housekeeper, is quite skilled, as you know, and my aunt’s companion is also a nurse. Our household has become an ad hoc hospital, you might say. I had measles as a girl. I hope you both have had it as well. I’m told there are outbreaks popping up all across the city.”

  “Oh, yes, I had them as a girl,” the countess said, but then looked at her niece, somewhat uneasily. “Delia, you had them, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” the young woman answered. “Perhaps. If so, then I must’ve been very little, as I don’t recall it at all. Are they quite catching?”

  “Yes, they are,” Elizabeth told her. “I think so long as you’ve not been near any of the maids, then you’re all right.”

  “Are you sure?” Delia asked, her mind whirring with possibilities. “And if any of our maids spent time with your own?”

  “Have they?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I believe several of our girls spoke of meeting members of your staff on Tuesday night. Have any of those girls taken ill?” the seventeen-year-old enquired.

  “I don’t believe so,” Beth answered. “I’ll have to discuss that with Mrs. Meyer to make sure.” The duchess sipped her tea, her mind turning over the subtleties of the conversation. “I’m told you’re to sing at my grandfather’s chapel services this Sunday, Delia. Have you chosen the song yet?”

  The scheming visitor seemed completely surprised by the switch in topic. “Oh, well, yes. The duke asked me if I might favour the congregation with a little song or two. I’m told his usual singer is ill. Is it measles?”

  “It is childbirth,” the duchess said simply. “Mrs. Highland delivered a beautiful baby boy last Friday. I doubt she’ll be singing again for several months.” From her vantage point, the duchess could see into the south garden area, and her mind wandered along with her eyes as she enjoyed watching a blackbird who had chosen to sing whilst perched upon a nearby fountain.

  “Several months?” she heard the countess exclaim. “Such a protracted recovery! Why, I was back to my regular duties within six weeks of delivering each of our sons. Of course, the Simpson women have always been stout of heart. Alan was the most difficult, but even so, I was up and about in two weeks’ time.”

  Beth turned back towards her guests. “Alan? Oh, yes, your youngest son. Isn’t he with the Army now? A surveyor or engineer?”

  “He is, indeed. Captain Alan Bellville. My father is so very proud of him. He’s a Major-General with the army, you know.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that,” Beth replied, her attention drawn away momentarily by the bird. Its song had ceased, and she’d turned to see if it had left, but instead, a strange shadow had taken its place. The man in the tall hat stood beside the fountain, his angular limbs clad in a black cutaway coat. His face lacked definition, and it seemed for a moment that he had no face at all. Merely an oval of black.

  Elizabeth stood and crossed to the window. Cordelia took advantage of their hostess’s distraction to quickly add two cakes to her plate and stuff half of one into her mouth. Lady Cartringham tried to stop her niece, but the young lady had eaten nothing all day in hopes of whittling her waist an inch, and her appetite had gotten the better of her manners.

  “Stop it!” Margaret Bellville whispered loudly as she slapped at her niece’s wrist.

  Beth assumed the countess had been speaking to her, and she turned about to answer. “Did you see it, too?”

  “See what?” Cordelia asked, wiping bits of icing sugar from her lips with a silk handkerchief.

  “Never mind,” the duchess said, returning to her chair. The creature remained beside the fountain, tipping its ghastly hat again and again as if performing a pantomime. Beth’s small hands clenched as she tried to maintai
n composure.

  Just then, Victoria’s dog raced through the doorway and leapt up on an empty chair near the window and began to bark furiously at the unwanted shadow. Beth turned ‘round to face the window, her eyes wide, for the creature had moved from the fountain to the portico, and now stood just on the other side of the glass, its inky face pressed against the panes. She could see the eyes now, like endless pools of night, and within them, two pinpoints of fire.

  Elizabeth stood, using the dog’s presence as an excuse for moving towards the window. “Samson, you mustn’t bark so much!” she scolded the animal as she reached for his collar. “There’s nothing out there.”

  Delia laughed. “Oh, but there is! Don’t you see it, Duchess? That awful looking bird! It’s peering in your window.”

  “Bird?” Elizabeth asked, her face paling. “You see a bird?”

  “Oh, yes, of course, I do! Don’t you?”

  The tall man waved now, causing the dog to jump onto the back of the chair, tail pointed, ears back, as it snarled and snapped at the apparition. The shadow’s mouth opened wide into a long oval, and it began to scream, a high-pitched wail that fell upon Elizabeth’s delicate eardrums like the call of a gigantic bat.

  Then she saw its wings unfurl.

  And everything went dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  George Alvin Price studied medicine at the University of London in the 1840s, graduating first in his class in 1846. His grandfather, Lionel Price, had practised law in the village of Branham, so George had returned there to reconnect with his family’s roots. Shortly after arriving, he’d been called upon to consult at Branham Hall on a case of typhus, which the young physician had brought to a positive conclusion. The patient had been the duke’s six-year-old daughter, Patricia Linnhe, and out of gratitude, Duke George offered Price the chance of a lifetime: to serve as family physician to the Branham line.

  In his many years since as medical consultant, Price had kept his patients’ privacy whilst providing the latest in medical counsel and methods. That Thursday afternoon, as he entered the duchess’s bedchamber, the ageing physician was pleased to find her apparently recovered from the fall down the stairs and subsequent faint that afternoon.