The Sign of the Raven

by L. C. Sharp

  “It’s been nearly a year.” She had married her first husband at the end of June last year. This was late April. Surely she should be recovered by now? But when someone touched her unexpectedly, she still recoiled from it. Until tonight, she’d even done it sometimes with Ash. But she was tired of it, now. She wanted to go on with her life.

  “Juliana, I am in no hurry. I am content.”

  He opened the door to his room and gestured inside. His new valet was waiting inside, standing by the washstand, but Ash waved him away. “Thank you, I’ll see to myself tonight.”

  Corbett bowed and left, almost silently.

  Ash waved at the chairs near the fire. She took the one nearest to her, and after tossing his coat onto the bed, Ash sat in the one opposite. So domestic, she thought.

  “So what did you think?”

  “Of what?”

  “Let’s start with Lady Coddington.”

  He liked to go through fresh impressions before they had had time to settle, as he put it. She pursed her lips, thinking. Then she said, “Her grief was extravagant. When they found me with Godfrey, I was numb. It was several days before I could think properly.”

  “You were in pain, mentally and physically. He had brutalized you. Numbness was your shield.”

  How well he knew her. “Yes, it was, and I’d grown used to keeping my thoughts to myself. But I felt nothing. No grief, no anger, nothing, not for a few days. I was glad when the shield around me shattered. But Lady Coddington felt something. Despite her evident grief, I’m not sure what. I could almost call it relief. I saw the look in her eyes when you told her Lord Coddington was dead. She was tense, as you might expect. She was expecting bad news before you delivered it, but having strangers come to her home uninvited at that time of night would have forewarned her. But there was something else. And I can’t identify it.”

  “Yes, I thought her grief was overdone. But I don’t know the lady. That could be the way she habitually responds to things. With exaggerated emotions. Her maid obviously expected something. Since she did not yet know about the tragedy, I assume her mistress has a tendency to strong emotions.”

  “And about the rest?”

  “We need to show her the pistol, or at least to show it to the servants, to see if they know it. It’s a gentleman’s weapon. It could have been his own, carried for protection.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “Why would someone kill him in that way?”

  “If the weapon belonged to his killer, then it wasn’t a common thief. The pistol was valuable. And the thief was dreadfully incompetent. He left so much behind, and I don’t know if you noticed, but Coddington had a large pearl pin in his neck cloth. We agreed that the shot was not detected immediately. Nobody said they heard it. But with the large explosions going on outside, that is hardly surprising.”

  “And the men who found him said they did so by chance. One slipped inside for a moment to relieve himself, but the piss stayed inside him when he saw the body.”

  “Ah,” she said. “So nobody heard the shot. That would have given the thief time to ransack the body and take what he wanted.”

  “Lord Coddington must have had a purse.”

  “Undoubtedly. But that was easy. Grab it and run. Footpads don’t leave anything behind, not even a handkerchief.”

  “Agreed. I think we can discount robbery as a true motive.”

  “Then what was it?” she wondered. She could think of any number of motives, but none that she could offer any evidence to support.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. A jealous lover, if he had a mistress, or a gambling debt, even a threat he had ignored. Someone he’d won money from. We have nothing yet. We need to discover more about his character and habits. If he had a lover, if he got on with his wife, if he was in debt, if he had any overt enemies...”

  “Of course.”

  “Or if his marriage was normal.”

  She repeated his word. “Normal, whatever that is. Agreed. So, tomorrow.”

  Feigning brightness, she got to her feet. But he’d seen something because he said, “Juliana, I couldn’t be happier in my choice of wife.”

  So he’d seen her doubts. She sat down again, knowing she had to have this out with him. “But I forced it on you.”

  After her parents tried to marry her to an old roué before her first husband was cold in his grave, Juliana had claimed she’d already married Ash. She’d only seen it as a way to escape, but Ash had made it a reality, effectively breaking her parents’ legal jurisdiction over her.

  Whatever came next, she’d always be grateful to him for that, but after her parents had withdrawn from her life, he’d let her into his, and enriched hers immeasurably. She wasn’t sure she’d done the same for him.

  He leaned forward, rested his forearms on his knees. “If I’d wanted to find another way to free you from your parents’ control, I could have. I chose not to. This way, you have your freedom, and I have a wife. We are content.”

  “But...” She shot a look at the bed, already turned down, ready for him. “But doesn’t that mean we are not married, in truth? That we haven’t...”

  “No it does not,” he said firmly. “We are married, well and truly. What we do or do not do in the bedroom has nothing to do with it, legally or otherwise.” The smile broadened. “I find I like having you for a wife very much, and I think our marriage could be a great one.”

  He wouldn’t let her speak when she opened her mouth to protest. He had the right to expect things of her, but they had not yet shared the intimacies of the marriage bed. “If I had not wanted to take you for a wife, I would not have done so.” He touched his wedding ring. Unlike most men, he chose to wear one. “This means nothing without sincerity and commitment. We have both. I will not allow anyone except you to break what we have. Not even myself. You have been the best wife imaginable. You found me Corbett.” He grimaced. “I never had the need for a valet, but I find he suits me very well. He suits me, and he takes care of my clothes even when I don’t.” He paused. “Sometimes I even let him shave me.”

  She laughed, and he smiled in return before he spoke again. “You have not forced Amelia out of a position she enjoys, as the manager of this house. You have brought small refinements, little changes to us. We even have more civilized breakfasts these days. Everything runs more smoothly now. Your assistance in the cases I work on is invaluable. You’re the first person I can completely trust. Amelia is too squeamish and Gregory too young. I have not trusted anyone in that way for years. I had almost forgotten the pleasures of it.” He studied her face closely in the glow from the banked-down fire. “You are happy, are you not?”

  “Oh yes! More than ever before.” Her cold, emotionless life, interrupted by one terrifying night of violence and pain, and now this? How could she not be happy? But there was something more. Her new world contained Ash.

  “Then let the rest follow as it may. Let’s not force anything.”

  He got to his feet and held out his hand. She took it and allowed him to help her up. No flinching, no hesitation.

  “Would you lean down a moment?” she asked him.

  After a second’s hesitation, he did so. Going on tiptoe, she brushed her lips against his cheek. His scent rose to her nostrils.

  She enjoyed it, as she did when he reciprocated and brushed his lips against her cheek. “Goodnight, my wife. Sleep well.”

  * * *

  Juliana woke in the morning after eight hours’ solid sleep. Her maid, Girard, bustled around the room quietly setting out towels, straightening the brushes and pots on the dressing table, and finally going to the clothes press and opening the big double doors.

  Her room, her maid, who would tattle to nobody, and who she could order to leave any moment she chose to. Luxury.

  Juliana enjoyed efficiency, and Girard satisfied that requirement perfectly. London by b
irth, Girard retained a slight accent from her French mother, but she used it judiciously, exaggerating it when required. A French maid was a symbol of rank, after all. Not that Juliana or Ash cared, but Girard did. She’d only agreed to come when Ash had mentioned Juliana’s parents’ rank, and she was still unhappy with their lack of social activities and their refusal to join the rounds of London society during the season.

  Blinking, Juliana watched Girard, and allowed herself to come to terms with the day. Several thoughts ran through her mind, but her first, amazed response was no nightmares.

  Ever since she’d woken up to find Godfrey Uppingham dead beside her, she’d slept badly, her slumber perforated by vivid dreams, not all of them connected to her late husband’s death. But his death had pushed other memories to the forefront: her mother, who only took notice of her to criticize; her father, who ignored her if he could and treated her as one of his possessions, rather than a real person; her horror when she’d been told who she should marry, and her panic the first time he’d kissed her. Even now that remembrance made her shudder, but it brought no corresponding flash of memory, the terror she could not stop shooting into her head at the most inappropriate times.

  Last night, no memory, no shocking vision had jerked her out of sleep. She had not risen and stared out of the window until the shreds of horror and fear left her. And she felt wonderful, as if she was becoming herself. The person she was meant to be, rather than the one her parents had insisted she become. She was never that, had never been that, only adopted the outer shell of the obedient daughter they’d wanted.

  As she sat up, Girard turned and bobbed a curtsey. “Good morning, my lady. Do you wish to rise? Your husband has ordered an early breakfast, because he has a busy day ahead, he bade me tell you. However, he says, you must rest if you need it.”

  The events of last night rushed back in a flood. She flung back the covers and swung her feet out, finding the step that helped her get out of the high bed. When Girard moved to help her, she waved her back and got down herself. However she did take the robe Girard brought her. A gift from Ash, the silk robe was wonderfully unstructured, wrapping around her body like a second skin. The light embroidery of daisies along the front seam and the hem reminded him of her, he’d told her when he’d given it to her.

  Juliana treasured it. “I’ll go down to breakfast. I’ll wear the dark red petticoat with the caraco jacket.”

  Not something her mother considered suitable wear, so Juliana liked it even more. The elaborate gowns that needed an hour to put on, and careful handling through the day, were folded neatly into the large clothes press. Right at the bottom. Her newer clothes occupied the top shelves, the practical wools, the silks and linens, even the cottons, fabric easily laundered and easy to move in.

  Once or twice she recalled a favorite ball gown or a robe à la française, but she had little opportunity to wear them, and she wasn’t sorry for that.

  Ah yes, she had a sop of comfort for Girard. “Last night we met the Duke of Newcastle. We are to attend his ball on Friday.”

  The maid flushed and smiled. “Do you have any preference for a gown, or would you wish to order a new one, my lady?”

  Juliana preferred “ma’am” in the privacy of the bedroom, but using her title made Girard happy, so Juliana condoned it. “Not a new one. I had a plethora of new gowns on my first marriage, and some are unworn. Go through them and see which would be most suitable. Provide me with a list and I’ll select one.”

  She received another curtsey for that.

  Half an hour later, her hair pinned back in a loose knot, her lace-edged, lappeted cap pinned to her head, and arrayed in the red cloth petticoat and jacket, Juliana went down to breakfast. The minute she opened her bedroom door the welcome fragrance of roast and fried meat rose from the floor below. This house was large, but not a mansion, or a palace, like her father’s country seat. The food served there was always cold, having to be brought from the kitchens on the other side of the house, and congealed bacon had never been a favorite.

  The sound of voices came to her when she approached the door to the dining room. No footman waited outside to fling open the door. Juliana proved herself capable of opening a door and walked in, a totally unforced smile on her face.

  “Good morning.”

  Ash looked up but didn’t get to his feet. This was a family breakfast, something Juliana hadn’t experienced before she came to live here. The informality of the family had astonished her, and still did at times, but she liked it.

  Ash returned to his newspaper after a smile. Juliana went to the sideboard, where a selection of food had been laid out over spirit-burners, and helped herself to what she wanted. The plate she loaded was a simple blue and white print, practical and pretty, not a gold-edged exquisite marvel of the art of the porcelainer.

  She settled at the circular table between Ash and his sister Amelia. “You look well,” Amelia commented. “It’s good to see.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I slept.”

  Ash lowered his paper. “Right through the night?” His startlingly blue eyes met hers.

  “Right through,” she said.

  His smile warmed her. “Then you’re ready for work, or would you rather stay at home today?” The smile faded slightly. “After all, we have a ball to prepare for.” He indicated his siblings with a nod. “I told them what happened last night, and about the duke’s invitation. They’re sorry for one and glad about the other.”

  “We are,” Amelia said. “If we can help you, then let us know. Now, about the ball. Should we go shopping for new clothes?”

  Juliana shook her head. “Not for me, though of course I’ll help you. I’ve told Girard to find something suitable.”

  The youngest member of the family made his opinion felt. “You’ll look pretty whatever you wear.”

  “Thank you, Gregory,” Juliana said. “What is it that you want?”

  At twelve years old, Gregory rarely noticed what she wore or didn’t wear. He wanted something. He glanced at his distressingly empty plate and stood to go to the buffet to refill it. Juliana took a mouthful of bacon and tomato from hers. “Martin Canham says there will be a viewing of the stones they uncovered in the City today.”

  Ash flicked his paper. “What stones?”

  “The Roman ones. It’s educational,” he added helpfully.

  “And you think you might see some bones there.” Juliana knew it wasn’t the Romans that drew Gregory. He worked hard at his studies, but he was not averse to a day off. She went on without waiting for an answer. “However, if the bones are Roman, they have some claim to be educational. What do you think, Amelia?”

  Amelia had the ultimate word in Gregory’s education. Ash had given over the management to her long ago, but the boy constantly tried to play one adult off on another.

  “If there are bones, they’ll still be there tomorrow,” Amelia pointed out calmly. “Your tutor intends to set you a geometry test today. If he gives me a good report, then I’ll talk to him about the stones and bones.”

  Ash grunted, a feeble effort to hide a laugh. “Don’t try to get the better of your sister or Juliana, Gregory. You won’t win.”

  Gregory grumbled, but applied himself to his breakfast with an enthusiasm that indicated he was afraid his plate would be snatched from him at any moment.

  “I have an account of the firework display here.”

  “Oh, do read it for us!” his sister said.

  And it would stop Gregory complaining, which he would undoubtedly do, given half a chance.

  Ash read from the paper. “One would imagine the inventiveness of the men who designed the machine from which the fireworks would erupt would be the marvel of the evening. But Mr. Handel’s music formed the greatest invention, and, this humble writer suggests, the most memorable part. When the display appears in its true form in Green Park, with the
additions planned, far more than the twelve thousand that attended Vauxhall Gardens last night will want to witness the marvelous spectacle.”

  He flipped over the paper to check the copy he was reading. The Daily Ransom. “Ah. That importunate man we met last night. You remember him, my dear.”

  She remembered him. “The tall, unkempt gentleman?”

  “Just so.”

  “He’s taken a particular interest in you, hasn’t he?”

  Ash grunted. “Some might say that. He’s a blasted nuisance.”

  “Twelve thousand?” Scorn colored her voice. “I would have wagered on not more than half that number in attendance. Still a substantial crowd, though.”

  “Twelve thousand would have collapsed the stands. Still, the fireworks were an entertaining spectacle, almost rivaling the circuses of Rome. One imagines they had fireworks, too.”

  “But not as grand as those,” Gregory put in, eyes shining. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “The machinery was ingenious,” Ash admitted. “I wish I’d had more time to investigate it. The fireworks were spectacular and varied, but too much would bore, the same as everything else does.”

  “Does it?”

  The surprise and the wistfulness in his wife’s voice drew Ash’s attention, and he lifted his eyes to meet hers. The soft blue melted him. “Perhaps not. Perhaps I’m too jaded,” he said. Yes, he remembered a time when everything had bored him, when his anger with his own helplessness filled him to the brim. So much that he’d nearly lost his way. He still wasn’t sure he’d found it, but Juliana’s honesty kept him solidly grounded. He was coming to depend on it.

  He smiled. “But with you by my side, I’m appreciating more of the liberties that I’ve taken for granted.”

  His sister grunted. “I never take my liberties for granted. You don’t know what living with Mother was like.”

  Inside, he froze, but he kept that smile in place. “I lived there until I was sixteen. I remember what it was like.”