“Was it confidential? She did not want to tell me of it, for she thought it would distress me to learn that a child of mine had died with my wife. My response was not what she expected.”
“You maintain, then, that you were not intimate with your wife? That this child could not be yours?”
“I do.”
“Then Lady Brackenwood had taken a lover?”
“It must be so,” Allan said. “How shaming that my wife felt such a need.”
“Lord Brackenwood, do you realise that this gives you a powerful motive for murdering your wife? She carried another man’s child, a child who, if male, would inherit the earldom.”
Allan stared at him. “Do you think I would have cared about that, even if I had known? Half the great families in the land have a child or two who looks nothing like his father. No one makes a fuss about it. But even if I were such a man as to care, I had not the least idea of it. However she managed the business, it was discreetly done. Miss Winterton has a theory about that, by the way. Something to do with dried flowers, which grow at Drummond’s Cottage, which is owned by Wilcox. From that she makes the leap to supposing that Eloise visited him at the cottage. I do not see it, myself, but then I am finding it difficult to imagine Eloise with any man. She was such a timid creature, Willerton-Forbes. And yet, it must be so, and the strange part of it is, that I am glad that she found some happiness in her life. God knows, she was not happy with me.”
“I will talk to Dr Wilcox again, of course, but I know that Lady Brackenwood’s last confinement was distressing.”
“Distressing? She nearly died. Or so Wilcox said.” He grunted in exasperation. “You see what you have done, Willerton-Forbes? You have got me looking askance at everything for hidden meanings and secret intent. I much preferred it when I thought the best of everyone.”
Willerton-Forbes gave a wintry smile. “Indeed. But I have talked to the Chester physician who attended Lady Brackenwood on occasion, and his reports coincide with Wilcox’s. So is it possible that, finding herself once again facing the same dire prospect, she might have chosen to end her life in her own time, to lessen her suffering?”
Allan pondered the point. “It is possible, I suppose,” he said slowly. “Yet she was very devout, and would have abhorred the very idea. But then I would have thought her the last person in the world to take a lover, so perhaps I knew her less well than I supposed. Poor Eloise! I could have tried to make her happy, if she had only confided in me. I am not a cruel man, I hope, and I was fond of her. Certainly I never wished any harm to befall her. Poor Eloise.”
~~~~~
Annabelle was twice more called upon to act as chaperon to Miss Hancock, while Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton tried to convince her that the late Lady Brackenwood had had a lover. She would not have it. Her mistress had been a woman of Christian principles to the core, she asserted, and would never even have considered such a thing, nor would she have taken her own life. It was unthinkable, and nothing would shake her. In the end, the lawyer gave it up.
It was clear, however, that he believed Allan’s story that the child could not be his. How humiliating for a man to be forced to admit that his wife had a lover! Although he seemed unwilling to accept that it was Dr Wilcox. Annabelle herself was convinced of it, if only because of the little pink flowers.
But what a coil it was! If Lady Brackenwood had conceived a child by a man other than her husband, then there were immediately three men with a reason to want her dead: her husband, who might be jealous and not wish to accept a cuckoo in his nest, his heir, who might see his own chance of a title slipping away, and the lover himself, who might wish to destroy the evidence of his wicked deed.
Allan. George Skelton. Dr Wilcox. Three men who might have wished Lady Brackenwood dead.
Until that point, Annabelle had never thought murder very likely, but now, with a chill of fear, she realised that an illegitimate child might be just the impetus that would do it. And she had to face the horrible prospect that the man she was seriously considering marrying might very well be a murderer. She wrote long, despairing letters to her sisters, and then burnt them. How she longed to talk to them, for there was no one in the house she could call a friend. Only Allan.
It was just as well she had her duties in the schoolroom to keep her busy now, for otherwise she would have run mad. The three girls were not, of course, perfectly well-behaved at all times, and Dorothea, in particular, was still inclined to odd shifts in mood, but on the whole they worked hard, and she could truthfully say that they would, in time, be accomplished young ladies and a credit to their papa.
She was supervising their drawing one morning when there was a knock on the schoolroom door and Allan crept in. Annabelle could see at once that there was something badly amiss, for his face was ashen, as if he had sustained a great shock.
“Whatever is the matter?” she cried.
“May I—?” he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “May I have a word with you outside, Miss Winterton?”
She followed him out in silence, her stomach roiling in fear. It must be bad news! A death, at least… one of her sisters! Nothing else— Unless Allan was to be accused of murder after all! Terror speared through her — no, he could not be hanged! Please God, no!
And then he spoke the last words in the world she had ever expected to hear.
“Mr Keeling is here to see you. He wishes to speak with you privately. He is awaiting you in the library.”
“Charles?”
“Yes. In the library. I will sit with the girls. Go, now.”
She went, in a dream, hardly knowing what she was doing. Charles here? Wishing to speak with her privately? What could it mean? Her heart pounded and she knew perfectly well what she hoped to hear — that his betrothal to Miss Lorrimer was at an end and he had remembered Annabelle, his first love, and realised that he could not live without her.
But was it likely? Was it possible that there could be a happy ending for her, that all her heartache could be erased in a moment? And at the back of her mind was the treacherous thought — was this even what she wanted now? Charles would be the choice of her heart, but now there was another choice, a more prudent choice. She could marry Allan instead, and rescue all her sisters from poverty, and have a man who had never wavered in his devotion, even for a moment.
She descended the stairs and crossed the hall, still in a dream of disbelief. She opened the door of the library and went in, and there he was, as handsome as memory had ever made him, and smiling at her so warmly, with such joy in his face.
“Annabelle!” he cried, rushing forward to take her hands. “The most wonderful news! No… it is sad news, of course, but wonderful for me. For us. You remember, I am sure, the circumstances of my family… that my uncle held the family estate. But he died two years ago, and his eldest son not long after, leaving only a sickly child. And now that poor child, too, has gone to meet his maker and so my father inherits all, and I after him. Is it not the greatest good fortune?”
“For your father, and for you, of course. I am happy for the improvement in your circumstances.” Her heart pounded so loud in her ears she could barely think, but she was puzzled, for he made no mention of Miss Lorrimer.
“So you see, the way is finally clear, my dear Annabelle.” He raised one hand to his lips and then the other. “I always knew it would be so. Fate has been kind to us.” He lifted one of her hands to his cheek, and held it there, eyes closed. She could barely breathe for happiness. But still there was no word of Miss Lorrimer. “Ah, Annabelle,” he murmured. “Make me the happiest of men. Say you will be my wife. Sweet Annabelle, love of my life.”
He leaned towards her, and in a moment he would claim her lips and then she knew she would be lost.
“Wait!” she said. “What happened to your betrothal?”
“Never mind that,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear in a way that turned her to jelly. “Say you will be mine, darlin
g Annabelle.”
Abruptly, she pulled out of his grasp. “No. Tell me about Miss Lorrimer. Are you or are you not betrothed to her?”
He sighed. “Annabelle, please…”
“It is a simple question, Mr Keeling,” she said coldly, although she shook from head to toe. “Has your betrothal been ended?”
“No, but as soon as you say you will marry me, I—”
She slapped him so hard that his head snapped to one side. He jumped back, one hand lifted to his cheek.
“What was that for, you little termagant?” he said in sudden anger, his brows lowering.
“You are no gentleman, sir. You are betrothed to Miss Lorrimer. Go away and marry her, and do everything in your power to make her happy.”
He sucked in his breath sharply, and his anger drained away into a look of fear. “But Annabelle, I love you.”
“Then I am very sorry for you.” She strode to the door and flung it open. “Out, sir. I hope I never see you again.”
“Annabelle, please! For God’s sake marry me or I shall run mad! How can I live without you?”
“Out! Ah, Plessey, pray show Mr Keeling out.”
“Certainly, madam. This way, sir.”
“Annabelle…” he whispered, and the anguish she saw in him mirrored her own. Her first love, her only love, and now he could never be hers, never. How could she marry a man who cared so little for honour? He was lost to her.
“Go,” she said.
And he had no choice but to leave, his face flooded with torment.
Annabelle shut the library door, hurled herself into Allan’s wing chair, and burst into wild, painful sobs.
21: An Announcement (August)
Despite her distress, Annabelle was aware of the precise moment Allan entered the room. Even through her own weeping, the soft snick of the door was clearly audible, and she knew it was him. Her spirits lifted at once. It was strange how he always had that effect on her. Allan was such a reassuring presence in her life, so calm, so matter-of-fact, and that was just what she needed at that moment.
A chink of glass and the glug of liquid, then he was there before her, a brandy glass in his hand. “Here… drink this, my dear.”
She could not move, so he pressed the glass into her hand, curling her fingers round it. Then, his own hands firmly around hers, he helped her raise it to her lips. Shakily she took a sip, feeling the liquid burn its way down her throat. Then a second sip. Her hands were trembling too much for safety, so he took the glass from her and set it on the side table amongst his many books. Then he knelt in front of her, proffering a handkerchief. He said nothing more, asked nothing, for which she was profoundly grateful.
After a while she mopped her eyes, blew her nose and said, “Thank you. I beg your pardon for my weakness. It was such a shock, you see.”
“No need to apologise. Perfectly natural, but… you refused him?”
“Of course.”
“Oh.” He sat back on his heels. “I assumed… Your pardon, this is no concern of mine.”
“He is still betrothed!” she burst out, and could not keep the anger from her voice. “He is still betrothed to Miss Lorrimer, but he comes here to offer for me, if you please, and thinks to break his engagement once he has secured my hand. But if I should refuse him, why, he still has his heiress, does he not? What a contemptible specimen of humanity he is! And to think I was once so foolish as to imagine him worthy of my affection. How ashamed I am of those feelings now! He is no gentleman, and I hope I never see him again as long as I live.”
“Oh,” he said again, and she saw a dozen different emotions chase each other across his face. Hope… perhaps that was the most dominant. Well, now he had reason for hope. She had finally shaken off her obsession with Charles, and understood his true character. And there before her, now that she could see clearly at last, was the man of true worth, the man who would never betray her or shame her, who was the real gentleman.
She knew then that she loved Allan and would marry him whole-heartedly, gladly and with faith in their future happiness.
~~~~~
AUGUST
Allan left word with Plessey that he wished to speak to Dr Wilcox whenever he should next be in the house. He rarely spoke to the man, except on those occasions when he felt obliged to invite him to dinner, but now it was necessary.
Wilcox was one of those wiry, nervous men whose very presence made Allan feel exhausted. The physician was never still, shifting from foot to foot if he stood, and crossing and uncrossing his legs if he sat. At the dinner table, when his hands were unoccupied he drummed his thin fingers gently on the table. But he was a sensible man, highly regarded both as physician and neighbour, and Allan had never had any quarrel with him.
He did not intend to quarrel with him over Eloise, either, for confrontation was not his way, but there were things that had to be said and matters that had to be understood between them.
Wilcox came regularly to the house to see Allan’s mother, so it was not long before Plessey showed the physician into the library.
“Ah, Wilcox, do come in. A glass of Madeira? Yes? And some cakes perhaps?”
Wilcox accepted the Madeira, refused the cakes and settled himself in the other wing chair as Plessey silently withdrew.
“Now then, my lord, what can I do for you? Is it a touch of this summer flu that is afflicting so many of our neighbours just now?”
“No, no, it is not my health. Nothing ever ails me, thank God. No, I wanted to talk to you about my wife, since you were attending her in the weeks before she died and must have as good a notion as anyone may of her state of mind.”
“Of course, my lord, although we talked at some length of this matter at the time, and it is hard to see what more may be said now.”
Allan smoothed an imaginary crease in his breeches, not quite willing to look Wilcox in the eye. But he must, he absolutely must. “There has recently been an unexpected development. Miss Hancock has suggested that Eloise was with child when she died, and—” Wilcox stilled abruptly, his face shifting almost imperceptibly to wariness. “—since I had not visited the marital bed for some considerable time, I must suppose that my wife had taken a lover.” Allan spoke as calmly as he could, for it was imperative not to alarm Wilcox. “As my wife’s physician, it may be that you were aware of her condition, and very kindly refrained from adding to the family’s grief by mentioning the fact, for which consideration I must thank you. Or perhaps you were not aware of it at all. However it may be, I should be glad to know if, in the light of this new information, you have any insight into my wife’s innermost thoughts at that time. For it would lessen my sorrow to know that she had enjoyed some happiness before she died.”
Wilcox licked his lips, but his face was chalk-white. If Allan had wished for confirmation of Annabelle’s suspicions, he could not have had stronger proof of it. He had not really believed it possible, yet everything in Wilcox’s manner proclaimed it so. He had been Eloise’s lover.
But he was not intent on shaming Wilcox into a confession, quite the reverse. It would be enough for him to know more of Eloise in those last weeks before her death. Had she run eagerly through the woods to the little cottage surrounded by pink flowers? Was she in love? Or was it boredom or desperation or loneliness that had driven her in this unexpected direction? And how had she felt when she realised she was to bear a child which her husband would know was not his?
“Was she happy, would you say? Or distressed?”
Wilcox cleared his throat. “Not happy, no. Despondent, I should say. She… was so gracious as to… to confide in me, so I knew of… of the child.”
“Then I can only reiterate my thanks for your kindness in withholding that information from me. From all of us. My mother would have been greatly distressed to know of it.”
“But you are not?” Wilcox said, quivering with nervous energy.
Allan chose his words with care. “Surprised, certainly. Shocked, even. But distressed? Eve
ry child is a blessing from God and I would have welcomed this one into the family, just as I did my daughters.”
Wilcox looked startled. “Then you would not have—?”
“Repudiated the child? Shamed my wife and brought scandal upon the family? No, certainly not. And if my wife had been happy in her choice, then that would have been a matter for celebration, to me. It has always been a great grief to me that I could not bring Eloise the joy she deserved. But you say that she was despondent?”
“Latterly, yes. When she knew for certain that there was to be a child. My lord, Lady Brackenwood had the greatest fear of pain, and after her last confinement, she swore she would not subject herself to such agony again. She… forgive me, my lord, but she asked me to tell you that she came close to death so that you would not— Forgive me!”
That was a surprise. Was it pain she disliked, or Allan himself? Perhaps that was her way of expressing her distaste for her husband’s attentions? Yet she had taken a lover… He shifted restlessly, not sure what to make of it. “You did as she asked, so you cannot be faulted for that,” he said slowly. “Yet if she had such a fear of pain, I wonder that she exposed herself to the possibility by taking a lover.” Wilcox’s knee jiggled restlessly, but he said nothing, so Allan went on soothingly, “But I suppose it was not intended. An accident of over-enthusiasm, perhaps. Poor Eloise! Do you think, then, that she took her own life?”
Wilcox swallowed convulsively. “I… I believe it possible, my lord. I… Oh, my poor lady!” And to Allan’s embarrassment, Wilcox covered his face with his hands and wept softly.
“There, there, man,” Allan said, not quite knowing what to do. “It was not your fault.” Which was, perhaps, a spectacularly stupid thing to say, for who else could be blamed except her lover and the father of her child?
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Wilcox scrubbed his face with his hands. “You see… I loved Lady Brackenwood deeply, and treasured every moment in her presence. Her death… it was the greatest affliction to me. I considered taking my own life, but… after praying for guidance, it seemed to me that my penance for entertaining such inappropriate sentiments must be to live on, with the pain of her loss my constant companion. I do not mean to suggest that my sufferings are in any way comparable to your lordship’s, but to this poor lonely physician, they were great enough.”
The Governess (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 1) Page 21
