by Locke, Laura
“Pauline!”
“Matilda.”
They all sat down to an early luncheon, then, mercifully, Alexander excused himself. Matilda was alone with her.
“Pauline,” she said. “I'm so, so glad you're here!”
“As am I, Sister,” Pauline agreed. They were alone in the upstairs parlor, a small room with a thick white rug and silk-papered walls.
“Pauline, I think this man is trying to kill our father.”
Pauline stared. Her lovely face drained of color. “What?”
“He is seeing Dr. Jarvis.”
“Who?”
Matilda sighed. She had forgotten that she had never told Pauline about the man the cook had found in their grounds. She explained who he was. When she had finished, Pauline looked at her, composure warring with rage on her face.
“This man is wicked, Sister,” Pauline said, eyes round. “We cannot let him do this.”
“No, Sister.” Matilda nodded. “I think we can catch him out. If you could do this...”
Matilda breathlessly explained her plan. It was simple, but it was not without risk for both of them. Pauline nodded when she was done.
“Yes, sister.”
Afterward, they talked of other things. Pauline said their mother was well, and told her about the party at their house. Lucas sent his regards, and seemed to be settling down very nicely. Father was as he had been when Matilda left.
When Alexander returned, an hour later, they had settled into comfortable talk about the London scene. He joined them and they all discussed the latest fashions amicably, as if they were three close friends. Matilda felt awed by Pauline's ability to keep a neutral face – an acting talent she had not known her sister possessed.
By four o' clock, Pauline was expressing her need to depart. She could not stay away from home long, she informed them firmly. And with just over an hour to the estate she did not want to leave too late, lest she be caught traveling in the dark.
“Please, take an escort of my men,” Alexander offered gallantly.
“I came up with the coach. I will be safe.”
“I pray you are,” Alexander said politely. Matilda and Pauline looked at one another. Neither of them had forgotten the coach incident. Matilda felt her heart pound nervously and had to resist the urge to go with Pauline, to check the coach before she alighted.
“I will be perfectly looked-after,” Pauline said icily. Matilda felt herself stifle an urge to cheer as her lovely older sister stared Alexander down. “Thank you, my lord.”
Alexander blinked. Matilda wanted to laugh. Softly-spoken and peaceable her sister might be, she had an iron will and it did not do to cross her.
“Very good, my lady,” he said.
Matilda embraced her sister tightly and they clung together a moment at the door.
“Go well, sister.”
“Stay safe.”
Matilda watched the coach all the way along the drive until it had passed out of sight.
“Well, then, “Alexander said beside her, a little impatiently. “Now that she's gone, do you think we could go to the drawing-room? I feel neglected.”
Matilda forced a smile. “Of course, my lord.”
They went to the drawing-room and played at cards. Alexander was joined later by a man from London, an acquaintance whose name Matilda barely remembered. The two men spent some time together discussing business while Matilda read a book.
Dinner was intimate – just them and their guest in the parlor. Matilda was relieved not to have to mingle with his friends, but in a sense the close scrutiny was worse. She was grateful for his associate's presence, which acted to dissolve some of the tension that was between them.
After dinner, they said farewell to their guest, then went upstairs.
“My lady,” Alexander murmured. They were alone on the landing, the night velvet around them. He drew her close.
Matilda made herself stand still. When he released her, he looked into her eyes.
“You seem distant, Matilda. It concerns me.”
“Distant?” she asked. “Why, no! I'm just...just preoccupied. All this worry for my father.” She sighed.
“Of course,” he said. “Well, I hope one day soon I can relieve your anxiety on that front. With a man to...assist your brother in his management, I feel sure things will be righted soon.”
“Oh, Alexander...” Matilda murmured. She had no idea what to say. Her worst fears had just been confirmed. His aim in marrying her was to gain control of her family's wealth. That much seemed certain. And what he would do with it after that, she was sure, would do little good for it.
“Goodnight, my lady,” he said, voice raw. He kissed her hand.
“Goodnight, Alexander.”
He left her and went up to his chambers.
In her bedchamber, Matilda rinsed her face in the ewer, vigorously. Then she looked around. She knew Pauline would do her part of the investigation – search their father's room, look for any traces of poison; anything they could take to their own physician with questions.
Her part was to search his chambers again. Look for correspondences with Jarvis. Look for any incriminating evidence to tie him to the doctor, the accident with the coach, or any accountant who might have had access to their father's accounts.
It was dangerous; it was risky. But it had to be done.
Feeling suddenly weary, she pulled the bell and Stella arrived to help her undress. Almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 24
“Matilda?”
Matilda looked up from her toast and cup of tea. “Yes, Alexander?”
“I was thinking we could ride to the lake tomorrow? I had wished it to be today, but business demands otherwise. I had correspondence from my father in London, and matters have arisen...I'll be with my solicitor for most of the day, I'm afraid.”
“Oh,” Matilda said mildly. She tried to keep the look of delight off her face. It was exactly what she needed! With Alexander preoccupied elsewhere, she would have enough time to look about, make a proper search through his belongings. It was perfect!
“I trust that is not too tedious of me? If it would help, Lady Alsace could come and keep you company? She had expressed an interest to talk to you.”
“Oh! No,” Matilda said, searching for an excuse. “My dear, I'm still a little tired. If it would not be too much trouble, I would welcome a day of solitary relaxation.”
“Oh,” he said lightly, seeming surprised. “Of course.”
“Well, thank you,” Matilda said kindly. “And I hope your business is not too taxing.”
“These things always are.”
At that blunt statement, Matilda decided it was best not to mention it again. She lifted her teacup and drank tea, looking out of the window behind him.
As soon as breakfast was cleared away, Alexander headed upstairs to his office.
“I have things that need to be set in order before Mr. Denny arrives. If you'll excuse me?”
“Of course.”
Matilda smiled at him and walked slowly from the breakfast room to the end of the hallway. Then she rushed to her chambers, heart thudding.
A whole day to explore! But where to start?
“I shall go to the drawing-room.”
In the drawing-room, Matilda went to Alexander's desk. She opened it and slid out a folder of papers, then, looking around to ensure she wasn't observed, rushed to her chambers to read them.
“A bill...” she said aloud, searching through the correspondence systematically. “A bill...”
There seemed an awful lot of bills in there – tailors, joiners, carriage-makers – but very few receipts.
“To Mr. Sanford, wheel-wright,” she read aloud. “The sum of a pound for services rendered to carriage, tasks unlisted.”
“Oh!”
Matilda folded it, some instinct suggesting to her that it was important. A second later, she realized why
. Of all the papers – the many bills and few receipts – this was the only one with a local address.
I wonder if Mr. Sanford has been to Braxton Manor?
The possibility that the unlisted services were sawing through their coach-axle was inescapable.
Having gone through the bills and not found anything more interesting, besides another local bill to a merchant for some flour, she set off to her next target: his bedchamber.
This was the most frightening one by far: having been caught in there once with an excuse meant that there was no excuse for being in there again. Her only hope was that he was still closeted with the solicitor upstairs. She glanced at the clock – half an hour to midday. Still time.
In his bedchamber, Matilda ransacked the desk. She closed the door behind her and went through all the letters. There was one to his father, saying things should improve soon. Asking patience. There was one to a cousin, assuring him he would be repaid. There was one from a relative in France, assuring him that, were he to need it, it would be possible for him to skip out of England a while and visit.
He does have an escape-route, Matilda thought.
She found nothing among the letters that seemed incriminating. She was about to leave, when instinct made her lift the blotter lying to one side. All the letters he had written recently would have lain against it. They might have left some words. All she needed was a name: Jarvis, Shipsley. Anything connecting him to the doctor or to their accounts.
She lifted it and looked through the stains: mostly, they were shapeless blots, unreadable and indistinct. There were some words. Coat, tailor, fetch. There were other words which lay across older stains, impossible to decipher. She was about to give up when something caught her eye. Merridew.
Matilda felt the paper slip between her fingers. She closed her eyes, feeling her head spin. Merridew was their accountant. Why would Alexander mention him?
Come, Matilda! There could be a dozen men called Merridew. It's not that unusual!
But still. What sort of strange coincidence was it that the name Merridew was here on his blotter, and he had been seen riding from their home the day their accounts came from London?
She folded up the blotter and, checking she had left nothing odd on the desk, all as it was, she hurried to her chambers.
“Whew.”
She leaned against the door, closed behind her, then let herself slide slowly to the floor. What had she uncovered?
She sat on the bed, wishing she could lock the door behind her. She had found a letter to a wheelwright for services unmentioned. She had a name on a smudged ink blotter.
So trivial! Yet so meaningful.
“But would anyone listen?”
Probably not, she decided gloomily. It would seem ridiculous; girlish fancies. She would be lucky if she was not sent to Bath for a cure and quietly forgotten about. No one would listen to such threadbare tales.
If Pauline found something at home, then together we could make a case. Every bit helps.
Thus encouraged, Matilda folded the evidence inside a handkerchief and tucked it in a compartment in her dove-blue velvet purse. Then, checking she did not look wild or disheveled, hurried to luncheon.
The butler had set out some cheeses and breads in the parlor, a bowl of fruit and a simple tart for dessert. Matilda dined alone, relieved to escape the gaze of Alexander, who seemed always to be watching her, absorbing every move.
I miss Henry.
The thought made her feel homesick, and Matilda bit her lip, refusing to allow herself to admit to that. If she thought of Henry she would be too sad to continue and that would not help her cause at all.
She finished her lunch, dabbing at her lips with a linen square, then hurried upstairs.
Last stop: Alexander's study.
She shuddered. After his bedchamber, this was the most dangerous one. The only positive side was the timing: Alexander and his solicitor had to eat lunch sometime. With any luck, she would be upstairs while they were down.
In which case, I'd best be quick.
Matilda lifted her purse and slung it around her arm, some instinct telling her that she might need it. If she found evidence, she'd need to grab it and hide it fast: lingering in his study was not an option. She walked briskly up the hall and to the parlor. There, she rang a bell-rope.
“Haddon!” she smiled cheerily at the butler, who appeared almost at once.
“My lady?”
“Is his lordship about?”
Haddon looked gravely at the clock. “At one of the clock? I think his lordship and Mr. Swansea are in the village. They went about an hour ago to his office. They planned to dine there and then return.”
Matilda bit back a triumphant grin. “Thank you, Haddon.”
“Very good, milady. Aught else?”
“No, Haddon. Thank you.”
She raced upstairs, with no clear idea of where the study was. She suspected it was between the library and the long gallery, since he had mentioned it on their tour a few days previous. But where was it?
Heart thumping, Matilda looked about. She could not very well summon Haddon and ask him, could she?
“We'll go all the way to the end of the hallway, then turn round and go right.”
Matilda walked left, feeling her hair standing on end. It was so quiet here, the topmost floor of the house! Quiet, with that strange eerie sense of watchfulness that comes with silence, and rooms left long unvisited. She tiptoed past the library, glancing in at the rows of shelves. No-one was there, and she headed on to the end of the hallway.
On her right, a door was partially-open. She tiptoed up and peered in. The room was small, with wood paneling and tall cupboards lining one wall. A vast, dark wooden desk sat in the center, dominating the space, a chair with a red-tasselled cushion behind . The room had a smell of leather and snuff and salty dryness. A masculine smell.
His study.
She breathed in deeply and opened the drawer on the left. A few sheets of paper, spare quills. The next drawer down contained larger paper and sealing-wax. The bottom drawer was stuffed with old account books, the topmost one printed with a date from a decade before. She heaved it shut.
“Right. Let's see these ones.”
She opened the top right. Empty, but for a blotter and a spare seal. She drew out the blotter. Some letters looked up at her. Breathing shallowly, feeling excitement and fear mixed, deliciously and terrifyingly, inside her, she sat down and read them.
“Most honorable Lord Epworth. I am writing to you on the subject of that matter which we discussed a month previous. All is as it was planned. I am lodged in...Estony street in the village of...of Braxley!” she paused, heart thumping, then read on. “It is a comfortable accommodation, for which the sum is some two shillings per night. I am well-placed here and will begin our work tomorrow. The house is some two miles off from the village, easily accessible by foot. I am confident all will be easy to achieve. As you have advised, I shall begin slowly and keep you informed of my progress. Yours sincerely, G. J.”
Matilda stared. The date was just under two months ago.
The initials – G. J. – could it be Jarvis?
It made sense. The person who wrote this letter had come to Braxley some months ago. They had taken lodgings and wrote to inform Alexander of the price. The house he spoke of – two miles from the village, accessible by foot, well-placed – it could easily be Braxton Manor. And what “work” was it he spoke of?
“He means poisoning Papa. I know it!”
She felt her heart thumping and started to search through the blotter. The next pages were blank, the next contained some complaints to a tailor, written as a copy to whatever letter his lordship had sent, then some more blank papers. She felt a compulsion to fold up the letter and did so, dropping it hastily into her bag.
But what of the other letters G. J. had mentioned? The ones detailing his progress? She needed those...
“Excuse me.”
The voice
made Matilda's blood freeze. She let out a cry, and let the papers fall. They fluttered to the floor and she turned round. Alexander was in the doorway. His face was white, his eyes black. They burned in his face, dilated with a silent rage.
“Alexander! I...”
“What are you doing?” He did not wait for a reply, but advanced on her like a striking cobra. She screamed and, screaming, ran for the door. She heard his feet pursuing her and sobbed, running.
He grabbed her skirt as she reached the stairs. He leaned over her, his fist inches from her face. His hand on her arm was merciless, his fingers bruising her muscles.
“You prying, probing little wretch,” he hissed. “I could kill you for this infernal curiosity! What have you...”
“My lord!”
As the butler appeared, Matilda ripped herself clear of Alexander's grasp. His attention focused elsewhere, his fingers had slackened just enough for her to wrench from his grasp.
She ran headlong down the stairs, paused on the next floor and decided it was foolish to hide in her chamber. She had to leave this place. Now.
She ran down the stairs and kept on running until she reached the front door. As she burst out into the grounds, she heard a shout. He was behind her. And he was carrying a pistol.
Feeling her heart pounding in her chest, her whole body light with terror, she pounded down the drive towards the stables. If she could find a horse, it was her only hope.
“Milady?” the groom stared at her as she burst in.
“A horse!” she screamed. “Now! Oh please...”
“Bruno is saddled, my lady. But he..”
“Yes!”
Seeing the hunting stallion, just returned from the field and not yet unsaddled, Matilda launched herself at him. Inwardly thanking her mother for hiring them the best riding coach in London for a season, she vaulted up onto the saddle and rode for the open door to the yard, hearing boots on the flagstones as she did, and Alexander's cry.
“Stop that woman!”
She rode, arms straining, legs aching from the sudden, unknown sensation of riding astride, lungs heaving, heart thumping hard, to the gate.
