An Earl To Remember

by Jasmine Ashford

Evelyn surveyed the table, where five gentlemen in day-jackets sat talking. One of them was Barrett's father, Lord Brokeridge. She chuckled shakily. “I shall not starve, my lord. I shall take some of the hard-boiled eggs, I think,” she said as he passed her the ladle, “and some tea.”

  She sat and ate her breakfast, listening to the delicate clink of silver cutlery and the soft murmur of voices. She found she did not much like Barrett's friends – they all seemed the sort of people drawn to wealth and not too scrupulous about using others. She kept her eyes on her plate and tried not to invite any talk.

  As she sipped her tea, she used the opportunity to study her host. He sat at the head of the table, talking to the Honorable Mr. Prestwich – a slender, sandy-haired man sitting on his right. He had a reposeful posture, a man relaxed in his power. If this was a murderer – and she was beginning to suspect he was – then he was supremely confident about never being apprehended. He seemed to sense her watching him, for he glanced in her direction. When she looked down, he smiled. The sharp-edged grin was exactly the same as how he had smiled when she saw him all those years ago in the woods. It sent a shiver down her spine.

  Perhaps he really is evil? Evelyn lifted her cup of tea and blew the steam away. There was no such thing as an evil person. There were, however, people who did evil things. She listened in to his conversation, looking the other way so that he would not guess her interest.

  “...My dear Eustace! Of course, we can invest five thousand in the spice trade! It is so lucrative we could practically print our own money after eight years of returns!”

  “Do you truly think that wise, Lord Brokeridge? I have misgivings...The boom of the spice trade can only last so long.”

  Lord Brokeridge laughed. “You really think that? No, Eustace. Spices will be raking in cash for the next one hundred years. Mark my words. And a sizable part of that could be ours. Make the investment. Swift actions bring swift rewards.”

  Listening to Lord Brokeridge's reckless assurance, Evelyn formed a picture of him in her mind. He was wild, impulsive, and arrogant. However, he was also certainly capable of making calculated plans to benefit himself. The more she watched him, the more likely it seemed to her that he was a man who would stop at nothing to increase his wealth – perhaps even stretching to murder his wife. She shivered.

  “My lady?”

  “Lord Barrett! I was distracted. What did you say?”

  Barrett patted her hand, a gesture that raised a few eyebrows. Evelyn smiled as he replied, “I was merely saying we are about to leave – the earlier we set out, the less treacherous the snows will be. If you will excuse us?”

  “Of course,” Evelyn nodded. She was pleased to have a chance to start investigating.

  “Thank you for your agreeable nature, my dear,” he smiled. Once again, they drew some stares. Barrett was clearly interested in Evelyn, and his associates clearly had not known how deeply they were involved.

  Despite all her misgivings, Evelyn felt a strange sense of pleasure at that thought. “Well, gentlemen?” Barrett addressed everyone, standing up from his place at the table.

  “Shall we head off?” Lord Brokeridge asked, joining his son. The other gentlemen were already pushing in their chairs, nodding agreement.

  “Lady Evelyn,” the man sitting beside Evelyn said and bowed deeply. Evelyn curtsied. She had forgotten his name.

  One by one the men took their leave, Lord Brokeridge leaving last.

  “Lady Evelyn,” he said, bowing. His smile was sardonic as he looked at her, eyes twinkling.

  “Lord Brokeridge,” she said stiffly.

  Then she and Barrett were alone in the breakfast room.

  “My lady,” he said, taking her hand. “I hate to leave you when you are feeling poorly. Promise me you will rest? And not go wandering about?”

  Evelyn blinked. Did he know? How? She gave a giggle. “I do not have the energy for perambulations around this house, my lord!” she said lightly. “I promise to confine myself to bed and a good novel.”

  “Very good,” he agreed warmly. He lifted her hand to his lips. His breath on the back of her hand was warm and Evelyn could not help a tensing of her stomach, a tingling sensation of desire. She squeezed his hand in return.

  “Go safely,” she said gently.

  He nodded and they kissed. His mouth was hard on hers, warm and hungry and insistent. Evelyn felt her whole body flare under the touch of it, all the tension in her softened.

  They were both breathing heavily when they drew apart.

  “Go well, my lord,” she repeated.

  “Take care.”

  He walked toward the door, still staring at her over one shoulder. Then he was gone, a final wave of a white-gloved hand through the door signaling a farewell.

  Evelyn collapsed into a finely-upholstered chair, feeling drained of energy. She really was tired, and the tension of facing guests, combined with Barrett's father, and her intense longing for Barrett himself, both drained and confused her.

  I don't know what I am going to do, she thought a little wildly. She snorted. Pull yourself together, Evelyn! You have the perfect chance to find answers. You'd best use it. Sighing, she stood as the servants came in to clear the tables, and went up the staircase toward the East Wing.

  Instead of heading on toward her bedchamber, she went left, to where a large bay window gave a view of the front garden and the drive. She watched the riders assemble in the drive, Barrett at their head, his father behind him. As she waited, the last of the party rode out of the stables and the group rode toward the gates.

  She waited until the last rider had passed out of sight below the tall trees that flanked the drive. Then, weary with relief, she walked back downstairs.

  The first step should be to interview the staff.

  Evelyn swallowed hard and went to find someone who could lead her to the kitchens. As she walked down the marble-floored hallways downstairs, past beautiful carved tables bearing imported porcelain, or beautiful tapestries adorning the walls, she thought about what she could ask at the kitchens. She also needed an excuse to be there.

  “Rawling!” she said, seeing the butler as he walked past.

  “Yes, my lady?” He bowed low.

  “There is something our cook used to make for me when I felt poorly – a tisane that always alleviated my headaches. If I could go down to the kitchens to tell Cook the recipe?”

  He looked surprised. “Of course, my lady,” he said at once. “Though, if my lady knows the ingredients, you need only write down the names and I can send to town to procure them.”

  Evelyn smiled wanly. “No, Rawling, it is well. Thank you, but they are simple things – I am sure you have them already in the kitchens. It is a particular method of preparing it I would like to be able to describe myself.”

  “Of course my lady,” he said.

  Evelyn could almost see him shrug, as if to say: Why not? She tried not to smile. She knew it was a strange request, but anything to get her downstairs to talk with the servants was a good idea. “Thank you,” she agreed.

  “Would you like to go down now?” he asked, still looking at her vaguely incredulously.

  Evelyn nodded. “Yes, please. If you will lead the way?”

  “Of course.”

  As they headed back down the hallway and to a door that led to the servants' corridor, Evelyn tried to find a memory of a tisane recipe in her thoughts – something at least vaguely plausible that would not poison her were she to have to drink it actually. The thought of poison reminded her of her real reason for being there. She shivered.

  It took a surprisingly long time to find the kitchen, but they eventually reached it. The servants’ corridor was plain and whitewashed, narrow and with a simple wooden floor. Mr. Rawling tapped on the plain oak door at the end of it. It was opened and he stepped back, smiling, for Evelyn to enter.

  “Lady Evelyn wishes to speak to Mrs. Brook,” he said grandly. Evelyn bit back a grin. It felt strange to be anno
unced as if she was calling at Almacks, when in reality the place she was entering was so different.

  The scents hit her first –vegetable broth, spices and baking bread. The loaves had been made hours before, and two or three still reposed on a side table of rough wood, laid on clean linen. The room was lit by firelight from a large hearth and the muted firelight shone on copper kettles. There were herbs hanging from wooden shelves and their scent added to the delicious smells that pervaded the place.

  “Mrs. Brook?” Mr. Rawling said inquiringly. The woman turned around, a retort on her lips. When she saw Lady Evelyn, she smiled. She had red cheeks and a pretty, flushed face.

  “My lady!” she gushed. “What can I do for you? What brings you down here all this way this morning?” She had a country accent, not like the city-speak of some of the other servants, and Evelyn instantly liked her. She smiled.

  “I was asking Mr. Rawling if I could describe a certain tisane to you. It has always helped me with my headaches and I have need of it now.”

  “Of course!” the woman said, glancing at Mr. Rawling, who shared a surprised look with her. “Come, my lady, please! Sit! You can't stand about in here in this heat...little lass like you might faint!”

  Evelyn thanked her as she pulled out a chair at the table for her. This was evidently where the servants sat to eat their meals, though the chair Mrs. Brook gave her was cushioned and quite comfortable. “Now, the tisane,” Evelyn began.

  “I know a fine one with fennel – my mam used to brew it when I was a baby. Cured all ills, it did!” Mrs. Brook beamed happily.

  Evelyn studied her as she spoke – she was around two decades older than Evelyn herself, and she had a sweet, honest face. If anyone had, in fact, poisoned Lady Brokeridge, she could almost bet Mrs. Brook knew nothing of it.

  “I'm sure it did,” Evelyn agreed. “The one I am thinking of requires fever-few and cinnamon.”

  “By!” the woman smiled. “You know something of headaches, then, and what it takes to cure them.”

  Evelyn blushed. She knew a little, garnered from their cook at home. The fact that their cook was known for her home remedies was true, and Evelyn was pleased she could remember enough at least to lie convincingly. “Thank you,” she said. She racked her brain to think of a way to turn this conversation to the topic of the dead Countess.

  “Though I always found willow to be more effective – particularly if the headache comes on when the person has the chills,” the cook observed.

  “Quite so,” Evelyn agreed, impressed. “And cloves can help a headache, too, if it comes from toothache.”

  The woman looked so pleased that Evelyn thought she might embrace her, which would have been awkward. “By, you are a wise young thing!” she replied. “There's not too many who know that. I can see we could have a very nice chat.”

  Evelyn smiled. This was exactly what she wanted! “I hope we can, Mrs. Brook,” she said agreeably. “It is not often I meet someone with your knowledge either. I wanted to ask what you would recommend for melancholy?” She took a guess at something the Countess might have suffered as an attempt to turn the conversation toward her.

  “Oh, that's easy!” the woman exclaimed. “Heart’s-ease. Always works.”

  Evelyn paused. “I noticed some of it growing here yesterday. Did you use it on anyone in the household?” Did you use it for the Countess?

  “Yes, sometimes. The housemaid Meg gets terrible malaise, and Mr. Brewer, he goes terrible morose in winter-tide.”

  “And any of the Brokeridge household?” Evelyn asked cautiously. She had taken a guess in raising the subject of melancholy, and hoped it would pay off.

  “By! Yes, now you mention it, Lady Brokeridge did have need of my heart’s-ease tea once or twice. Poor lady.” She looked down at her hands.

  Inwardly, Evelyn cheered the correctness of her guess. “I understand she passed away many years ago?” Evelyn asked.

  “Oh, yes! I was just here a year when the poor lady did leave us. Poor thing! She never seemed happy. Now you mention it, melancholic was what she was. Sore melancholic.”

  “Really?” Evelyn asked. “Was she homesick?”

  “By, yes she was!” Mrs. Brook agreed readily. “And, between you and me,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, looking round the kitchen to make sure they were not overheard. “Lord Brokeridge, he didn't treat her well. She got sadder and sadder throughout that year, and they'd not been married that long.”

  “Really?” Evelyn forced herself to breathe evenly. The fact that there was dislike between Lord Brokeridge and his wife was information she did not have yet.

  “Aye,” the woman agreed, nodding vigorously. “Eight years. He's a mean bastard, pardon my language, my lady,” she added hastily. “But I do speak plain.”

  “Do not apologize,” Evelyn said warmly. “And I agree – I have noticed something a little difficult about the man. He is...unfriendly,” Evelyn said, casting for a word that expressed Lord Brokeridge's aloof arrogance simply, without sounding too negative.

  “Yes!” the woman nodded enthusiastically, grinning at her. “He is! We all are half-terrified of him, if I tell the truth.”

  “Truly?” This was interesting.

  “Aye,” she said, looking around the kitchen to make sure they were not being overheard. “He has a terrifying temper. He once dismissed a maid for dropping a glass! Straight out in the street she was, with nothing to her name, nothing but the clothes on her back.” She shook her head. “Cruel man.”

  “He is violent?” Evelyn asked hesitantly.

  “No,” the cook explained, considering her words as she spoke. “He's never violent. It's more a sense of menace – a sense of what he could do. That's what makes him so frightening, you understand. You know he'll do the most wicked things if it suits him, and think nothing of it. Like when he threw poor Prudence out like that – the girl could have starved, and he didn't care a thought. She broke a glass, and that was that. You can't let a person starve for a crystal glass!” Mrs. Brook said shrilly.

  “I agree.”

  “Well, my lady,” she smiled, “there are not many who do – not in your station. 'Tis a pleasure to have met you, so it is.”

  “Thank you.” Evelyn took her hands. Sensing that the interview was almost over, she decided she had better make provision for a return. “It has been pleasant to discuss herbs with you. I hope we can talk again sometime?”

  “By!” the woman exclaimed, face wreathed in smiles, “but it would be a grand thing. There's no one for me to talk to down here about the likes of that. Well, almost no one,” she shrugged. “Meg knows something, and Mr. Adam, he knows a bit. But he's a strange bod, let me tell you. Keeps to himself, like. As crooked as the master, though I don't think even the master trusts him.”

  Oh, Evelyn thought to herself. “Mr. Adam?”

  “The head of the estate,” Mrs. Brook explained. “He looks after all his lordship's lands – not just the ones here, but wherever else he owns property. Which is all over the place, if you're asking me. And they do say...” she said, lowering her voice.

  “They say what?” Evelyn prompted.

  “They do say he hated the mistress for some reason. Nobody knows what, but I heard it from old Pam, the housekeeper before me, who was here longer and remembered more. She said Mr. Adam was almost sacked for insolence once, and after that the mistress never went into the gardens again. In my time, I remember her leaving her quarters only twice.”

  Evelyn stared. “Truly?”

  “Oh, yes! Well,” Mrs. Brook corrected herself, “she did go to parties and balls, but when she was here during the day, she never came out of her rooms. I know because Rebecca, who was her personal maid, she used to take all her ladyship's meals up to her. She didn't venture downstairs at all. Like she withdrew from the world. Very odd,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Was she ill?” Evelyn asked cautiously.

  “Not ill, exactly. Well, Rebecca said she wa
s just tired, and a bit...strange, like. Quiet and frightened. It was very odd.”

  Evelyn cleared her throat. “Is Rebecca still in service here?”

  “Oh no, lass,” Mrs. Brook said feelingly. “When Mistress passed, she returned to service in her former household. I've not seen her in years, though she is in London, where Lady Euphemia's family is, in their town residence.”

  Evelyn paused. She would love to be able to question the lady's personal maid-servant: if anyone knew anything about her state of health in the weeks prior to her death, it would be Rebecca.

  “The Tallinn residence in town is quite far from here?” she asked hesitantly. She had visited Lord Tallinn’s home with her parents once when she was a child. However, she had no idea where it was.

  “It's not that far, my lady,” Mrs. Brook explained. “Just a mile or so in – in Chelsea. Mr. Preston, our coachman, often goes there. His wife works there as housekeeper,” she explained.

  “Oh,” Evelyn nodded and tucked away the information in her mind for future reference. I need to go there, to speak to Rebecca.

  “You will likely pass the house on your way to the theater,” Mrs. Brook continued.

  “I shall keep my eye out for it,” Evelyn said, smiling. Her memory sent her an image of a tall, imposing house of gray brick and steep steps. She would know it if she saw it. “Well, I should go. I feel a little faint. It must be the heat,” she said, smiling. Her cheeks were a little flushed, making an excuse to retire to her chamber.

  “Oh, my lady!” Mrs. Brook exclaimed. “Please, do take some fever-few with you now – it should draw the heat out of you and make you sleep better. You did want a tea of it, after all.”

  Evelyn smiled and let her prepare a tea. She accepted the china cup gratefully and ten minutes later, was walking back through the maze of corridors behind the maid, Meg. She found herself alone in the elegant hallway.

  “I need to go and write this down,” she said to herself. As she passed a clock, she noticed it was almost eleven o' clock. She would have to hurry – What if Barrett intended to return for dinner?

  Walking lightly and soundlessly upstairs, the tea of fever-few still warm and fragrant in her cupped hands, she returned to her room and shut the door behind her.