“But how charming!” Annabelle said. “And so you fell in love with your wife.”
“Oh no,” he said, and there was a bleakness on his face that shook her to the core. “I fell in love with Marisa. The next day, I offered for Eloise, because my mother wished it and her father wished it and there was a dowry of thirty thousand pounds that came with her which I would not get with her younger sister.”
“Oh,” she said, sitting back in her chair abruptly. “But you could afford to marry for love, surely?”
“Perhaps, but I did not know that at the time. The estate was still tied up with the lawyers. My mother told me we needed money, she told me it was all arranged with Eloise’s father and that I could not renege on those arrangements. You think me foolish, I daresay, and indeed, sometimes I think so myself, but at the time… I was two and twenty, and I had lost my career, my adored older brother and my father in very short order. I was adrift and unhappy and had always done as my mother commanded, and so I married Eloise. And I can tell you, Miss Winterton, that it takes a very long time to stop regretting the love thrown away. Mr Keeling will be unhappy for years.”
This time she was the one who reached across the table, and he did not flinch when she took his hand. So warm, the fingers so soft… “I am so very sorry. Have you been dreadfully miserable?”
He smiled, then. “No, not exactly. Just… empty. Aware that there ought to be something more to life. For a long time, I was sure I could make her happy, that she would turn to me… but she wanted nothing I could offer her.”
His words wrung her heart. She had seen the sadness in his eyes when she had first arrived at Charlsby, but had ascribed it to grief. Now she saw it again, the raw pain of a marriage without love, of endless enduring.
“As for Marisa…” He stopped, and she held her breath, unwilling to force confidences, but curious what he would say of her, the woman he had loved many years ago and had only recently rediscovered. He gave a wry smile. “One discovers eventually that the dream of perfect felicity is no less ephemeral than any other dream, or perhaps one’s ideal of the other sex changes with time. I am not sure that I would have been any happier with Marisa than with Eloise. But I shall never know, now. I made my choice, and it cannot be unmade.”
She understood him. Mrs Pargeter was his sister, and could never be his wife.
“Prudence has a great deal to answer for,” she said, idly stroking his hand as it lay passively in hers. “Charles prudently turned away from me, and you prudently married the older sister. Both decisions were sensible, at the time. There is no blame to attach anywhere.”
“Not in your case, perhaps,” he said, shifting restlessly, so that his hand slipped away from hers. “In mine, my mother was the instigator. She chose Eloise for me, although I have no idea why.”
“Have you not?” Annabelle said, smiling at him. “Having met Mrs Pargeter, I can imagine that she would have ruled the roost here, and the dowager countess would have been obliged to give way. Was the late countess a more biddable creature?”
He laughed then. “The timidest soul alive! Yes, she never dared to stand up to Mother. Do you think that was it? That Mother wanted no rival in the house?” Then, abruptly, the bleakness was back. “Aye, that would be like her. She loves to… how did you put it? Rule the roost. She certainly rules me.”
“Only where you allow yourself to be ruled, I think,” Annabelle said.
Something crossed his face then, a look that she could not interpret, and he sat upright in his chair again.
“Miss Winterton…”
He got up and paced restlessly across the floor to the window, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. The house was quiet in these afternoon hours, everyone resting before the dressing gong, or engaged in peaceful occupations. There was no sound from the nursery, so perhaps the girls had gone out with the nursery maids. Mr Willerton-Forbes had left the house early, and Captain Edgerton was away on some secretive business of his own. Mr Penicuik would be in the chapel. There was no one else on this floor, and probably no one on the floor below. Annabelle was alone with the earl in the schoolroom, the door closed, and yet she felt utterly safe with him.
“Miss Winterton…”
He flopped down onto the chair again and ran a hand through his hair, which disordered it not at all. He was not one of those men who spent an hour arranging his locks into a carefully contrived state of seeming naturalness. His hair owed nothing at all to artifice. If he did more than run a comb through it each morning, she would be surprised.
“Miss Winterton…” Now his fingers drummed on the table. She waited. With a heaving breath, he began, “I beg your pardon. Impulsiveness is not my besetting sin, but I must speak. You have said that you value openness and honesty, and so do I, so I will speak, and thus you will understand and will not be surprised when—” He stopped again. “This is awkward.”
She said nothing, hardly knowing what to say to such words. It was almost as if… but surely he could not be on the point of offering for her again? Had she not scotched that idea sufficiently? But she coloured up, all the same.
With another deep breath, he said, “Very well, then, openness it is,” almost as if he had been conducting some internal argument with himself. “Straight at the fence, and no jibbing,” he added in an undertone. Then he continued in a stronger voice, “Miss Winterton, I wish you to understand that when this ghastly business of Eloise’s death has been resolved, and if I am not hanged for it, I intend to make you an offer of marriage in due form.”
“My lord, I—”
“No, no, say nothing!” He raised a hand, alarm written all over his face. “Pray say nothing at all. I only wish to make you aware of my state of mind, so that… you will not be surprised, and will not be in any doubt of my intentions. The peculiar nature of your position here makes it improper for me to show you those little attentions which would… or, at least, might lead you to— But I cannot, as you will appreciate. I cannot say or do anything which might harm your reputation, or… or raise speculation in other quarters. It would be unendurable for you. But I wish you to understand, do you see?” He was almost pleading with her, but she was too shocked to speak. “There! I have said it and now you know, and we will not speak of this again until… afterwards. When this business is settled. But we are still friends, I hope, and even if I appear to treat you in public as merely the governess, you will know that you are much more than that, to me. And now I will leave you. I shall see you at dinner?”
She heard the question in his tone, and nodded.
“Good. Until then, Miss Winterton.” And without another word, he was gone.
Annabelle could barely breathe. It was the strangest conversation she had ever had. She had been the recipient of more than one offer of marriage, and one gentleman she recalled had made it very plain a few days before that he intended to speak. He had followed the proper form, of approaching her father and obtaining his permission to pay his addresses, which he then did, very prettily. Her reply was perhaps less pretty, for it is hard to make a refusal sound sweet. Then there was the impassioned gentleman who had proposed in the rose garden and then in the summer house and again in the morning room and finally in the drawing room. He had not been to see Papa, and he had given no warning, either, simply blurting out his admiration and wishes. Her refusals there became rather short. And the sweet parson from the neighbouring village, a man she might well have accepted for himself, but not when she would be sharing the marital home with his five children, his mother, his two maiden aunts and a stipend insufficient for their needs.
But never before had she encountered a gentleman who announced that he was going to offer for her, but not yet. And she had not the least idea what she felt about it, or even what the earl felt. Was he in love with her? His attempts to kiss her suggested some kind of attraction, but nothing more. And he had not talked of love or any of the proper things that a proposal should contain. Because, whatever it was, it was not
a proposal. Oh, it was vexatious! Idiotic man, to tease her so! And yet she smiled, even as she thought it. Such a lovely man, and she could do worse. Far, far worse.
~~~~~
Allan was shaking as he left the schoolroom, but when he had regained his library and poured himself a large measure of brandy and drunk some of it, he began to laugh. That would put Mother’s eye out! There could be no drawn out argument to sap his spirit, no futile attempts to persuade him. She would rule the roost no more. She would sulk, naturally, for she always did when her will was thwarted, but he could cope with that. Now he could tell her openly that he planned to offer for Miss Winterton and he could not be denied, for it was a matter of honour. He had announced his intention and he could not honourably withdraw. He sipped his brandy and chuckled.
Annabelle, meanwhile, would have time to consider her response and he hoped — oh, how much he hoped! — that her thoughts might be turned away from the unworthy Mr Charles Keeling and towards someone who would value her as she should be valued, who would cherish her for ever. She deserved something better than the unworthy Keeling.
The business was unorthodox, of course. How improper to say that he planned to offer for her, but not to do it! But she was the most sensible woman he had ever met, and would understand his motives. He could not leave her to wait and wonder, but nor could he court her in the conventional manner, not when he was her employer… No, he must be honest with himself. It was his own nature which drove him to such an expedient. He could not flirt, or pay a lady those delicate attentions which she would understand to originate with love. He did not have it in him to write poetry or offer posies of flowers or even to talk in the easy, teasing way he had heard some men employ. Inevitably he would end up talking about the weather, or whether the duck was as well cooked as the fish. He was a dull dog, and would never be anything else, but perhaps now that Annabelle’s hopes of Keeling were quite gone, she would settle for a dull life as a countess. He could make her happy, he was sure of it, if only she would give him the chance. Would she like jewellery and silk gowns? Or travel? Perhaps it would amuse her to see the beauties of England, or the Continent? He would give her anything her heart desired, if only…
By the second glass of brandy, his pleasant reverie of married life with Annabelle had expanded to include several children, all with her delightful features and calm demeanour. Her sisters were there, too, for naturally she would want to rescue them from the ignominy of paid employment. They would walk each afternoon round the lakes, no running or dawdling, and end up, perhaps, in the Grecian temple where, somehow, the merry band of children and sisters had vanished, and he was alone with his sweetheart and might kiss those soft, warm lips until—
A knock on the door disrupted this pleasant scene. He sighed. “Enter.”
It was Mr Willerton-Forbes. “Do you have a few minutes to talk, my lord?”
He repressed another sigh, but he was far too polite to send him away, however much he might prefer to be alone with his daydreams. He was shown to a seat, Madeira was poured and cakes sent for, since Willerton-Forbes was one of those thin men who was perpetually hungry. But eventually he came to the point.
“I have spent the past three days in Chester with two of the apothecaries there,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “I asked them to look at all the medicines found in the late Lady Brackenwood’s rooms to determine whether each one contained the designated substance, and to the correct degree. They found only one which differed from the label — this one.” He produced the bottle labelled in Eloise’s own hand. “This bottle, my lord, contains a substance which, in minute quantities, may soothe a heart which beats irregularly. In larger quantities, it will cause the heart to stop beating altogether. This bottle contains the larger quantity. If a person were to take the dose prescribed, it would invariably be fatal.”
Allan stared at him. “Then this is what killed her?”
“Almost certainly. The question is why. My lord, I regret to say that I must pry into matters which should not be the concern of anyone but the two people concerned. I must ask about the exact state of relations between you and your wife.”
17: Of Marriage
“Wait,” the earl said, bewildered. “I should not drink brandy in the afternoons, for none of this is clear to me. You went to Chester to see two apothecaries there? To examine my wife’s medicines? Surely Mr Burton and Dr Wilcox could have given you all this information? They made up these mixtures, after all. Or are they under suspicion too?”
“Everyone is under suspicion,” the lawyer said solemnly. “Even if it were merely a simple mistake in making up a lozenge, say, the two gentlemen might feel pressed by loyalty into saying nothing. What is done cannot be undone, after all, and what is the point in disrupting lives after the event? There was no intent to kill, and therefore no need to destroy a man’s livelihood. That is how they might argue.”
“And I would have some sympathy with such a view,” Allan said.
“But imagine, if you will, that Mr Burton had a secret, and your wife discovered it. If all were to be revealed, he would be ruined, quite ruined. In such circumstances, a man might be tempted to make a small mistake in preparing her ladyship’s medication.”
“That is preposterous,” Allan said, laughing. “Burton has lived in the village all his life, and his father before him. He can have no secrets.”
“Everyone has secrets, my lord,” Willerton-Forbes said heavily. “Will you tell us something of how things stood between you and your wife?”
He hesitated. It was so personal, and yet, having brought Willerton-Forbes to Charlsby, it would be foolish to cavil at his methods. Besides, he was innocent of any wrong-doing, and therefore had nothing to fear from honesty. “What do you wish to know?”
“Was she happy?”
Allan frowned, considering that. “She never complained,” he said eventually. “Not to me, at any rate. Not publicly. Perhaps she talked to her maid, as many ladies do. Eloise simply… drooped. Some days she seemed lively enough, as if she were privy to some inner joke, and other days she sank into apathy.”
“And was she… welcoming when you went to her at night?”
“This is necessary?” Allan said sharply. “It is a very intimate matter to be discussing.”
“My intent is only to determine her ladyship’s state of mind,” Willerton-Forbes said. “The mixture which killed her is, after all, in a bottle labelled in her own hand. It is possible, therefore, that her death was also by her own hand. If, perhaps, she found the continued attempts to produce an heir irksome—”
“Hardly that!” Allan spat, before he could stop himself. With an effort, he moderated his tone. “The efforts could hardly be irksome, Mr Willerton-Forbes, since there were none. After the twins were born, Eloise soon found herself increasing again, but she was unwell almost from the start. The birth itself was dreadful for her, quite dreadful. The child — a boy — was born dead, and Eloise was never quite well afterwards. Dr Wilcox told me that another child might well see her into her grave, and that I should not claim my marital rights if I wished to spare her.”
“And you accepted that?”
“Naturally.”
“Then you have… a mistress? Some… alternative arrangement?” Willerton-Forbes suggested tentatively.
Allan smiled ruefully. “Not all men are immoral, sir.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. No offence was intended. But you will wish to marry again, now that God has taken your wife from you.”
It was not framed as a question, but nevertheless the lawyer waited for an answer. Allan hesitated. They were back at the crux of the matter — his lack of a son, which they imagined would give him a reason to murder his wife.
“There is little point in prevarication, my lord,” Willerton-Forbes went on relentlessly. “I can ask the servants. And… forgive me, but anyone can see the direction your wishes take.”
Allan was not offended. He had invited Willerton-Forbes to Charlsby
precisely for his perception, so it would be churlish to quibble at it when applied to himself, but he could only hope his attachment was less obvious to others.
“I intend to make an offer of marriage to Miss Winterton, it is true,” he said easily, unable to suppress a smile at the thought. His heart gave a little skip at this public acknowledgement of his private wishes. “But since I did not meet her until long after my wife was dead, that could hardly have been a cause for murder.”
“In the particular, no,” Willerton-Forbes said. “But in the general — the requirement for a son — it is clear that none would be forthcoming from the late Lady Brackenwood. You cannot be crossed off the list yet, my lord, or the dowager countess. Or Dr Wilcox, come to that. Did you know that he prescribes the same heart medicine for your mother as killed your wife?”
“Oh, the physician is suspected now, is he?” Allan said testily. “What reason he might have for killing his most profitable patient is hard to fathom, however. And poor Mr Penicuik, I suppose he is still on your list? A man of God, who steps aside rather than squash a beetle on the path before him — you cannot seriously suspect him of murdering Eloise, just because she found out something from his past and teased him about it. You had sooner find Eloise’s maid, for there was a close-mouthed woman, if you please. She and Eloise spoke Welsh together, and they always had some secret going on. I never liked her, and I would believe her capable of any mischief.”
“Captain Edgerton has located Miss Hancock,” Willerton-Forbes said. “She is to arrive here the day after tomorrow. I undertook to send a conveyance to Chester for her. I trust that is in order, my lord?”
“Of course. I beg your pardon,” Allan said. “I should not vent my anger on you, but it is so… humiliating to have everything dragged up like this, with everyone suspected, and everyone’s motives for every action questioned. My wife and I married from duty, not love, and we were not even good friends, if the truth be told, but we rubbed along well enough. I was not an unkind or negligent husband, and she was not a faithless or wasteful wife. It never troubled me to be excluded from her bedroom, or to have no son. That is not something that can be proven to you, but nevertheless it is true. I was not unhappy with my situation, merely a little bored, I suppose, and probably she was much the same. My mother has long since accepted that no grandson of hers will inherit the title. As for the others on your list, one has to grasp at straws to make a case for any of them feeling so strongly as to kill someone. It makes no sense to me. No one in this house would have killed Eloise.”
The Governess (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 1) Page 17
