by Liz Carlyle
“But what about Miss Colburne?” said Bea. “Aren’t you going to marry her and bring her here to live?”
Napier hesitated, still unwilling to mislead the child. He gave a soft sigh. “I’m afraid we may not marry after all, Bea,” he said quietly. “Miss Colburne is having second thoughts.”
Bea swiveled her head to look at him, her eyes giving up little. “Diana had second thoughts,” she said quietly, “and that didn’t end well.”
He smiled faintly. “I’m afraid I brought Miss Colburne’s second thoughts on myself,” he said. “Will you mind so very much?”
The child lifted both shoulders in an exaggerated motion, rustling the grass. “Will you marry Diana, then?” she said a little sullenly.
Napier turned his face back into the branches. “No, Bea,” he said softly. “I think I’ve given my heart to Miss Colburne. It would not be right to marry someone I did not love.”
“Aunt Hepplewood told Diana that love was a cartload of nonsense,” said Bea evenly. “That it was better to marry with the head than the heart.”
“She might be right,” Napier admitted, “but it’s too late for me. That said, I’m going to ask you to keep my secret about Miss Colburne for now. Just in case I can convince her to change her mind. Can you do that?”
The girl nodded. “Yes,” she said solemnly. “I can keep a secret.”
Napier hesitated a heartbeat before plunging forward. “Indeed, I think you must be very good at keeping secrets,” he said, “which is an admirable quality under most circumstances.”
She was still looking at him through the swaying stalks of grass. “But not all circumstances?”
“Not always.” He rolled up onto his elbow, and withdrew the letter from his pocket. “For example, I think, Bea, that you secretly wrote me this letter some weeks past.”
He held it out between two fingers. The child looked at it unblinkingly, her blue eyes narrowed a little against the sunlight.
He let his hand drop. “Actually,” he said, “I know you wrote it. And I should like to know why.”
“How do you know?” she asked doubtfully.
“Because it is my job,” he said. “My job—sometimes—is to uncover secrets. Oh, it looks, perhaps, as if a servant might have sent it. Cleverly done, I thought.”
She was silent for a long while. Napier refolded the letter and tucked it back into his coat. “Bea, you don’t have to say why you sent it, if you don’t wish to,” he said, “but just know that it was perfectly fine for you to write me.”
“Was it?” she said in a small voice.
“Certainly,” he said. “In fact, whilst I’m still living in London, you may write to me at any time, and about anything. If something troubles you—even the most trifling thing—I should wish you to write me, and to do it straightaway. But do sign the letters, Bea. I would be very happy to get them, and to see your signature.”
She sat up then, curling one leg beneath her. She looked coltish, and very pretty. Indeed, he thought it quite likely her beauty would surpass even her sister Anne’s.
The child was fast approaching a vulnerable time in her life. Soon enough there would be balls and suitors and marriage proposals to be weighed. The thought chilled him. And because of it, Napier dared do nothing to jeopardize the child’s growing trust.
Bea began to twist a stalk of grass into some sort of loop. “I might write to you again,” she said, “someday—if you don’t come back to Burlingame.”
He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I will come back, Bea,” he said quietly, “from time to time. And if anything should happen to your grandfather—to our grandfather—if Duncaster’s health should fail, I mean—then I would come at once. And I would stay.”
“All the time?” she whispered.
“All the time,” said Napier.
And he was suddenly struck with the realization that the idea no longer troubled him as much as it once had. Sir George had been right. There was no escaping his fate. Moreover, there was much to learn here, and the fortunes of many depended upon Napier’s ability to learn it.
But his days spent traveling the estates and reviewing the accounts with Craddock had reassured Napier that Lisette had been right, too. The running of a great estate required, above all, a keen grasp of human nature and a knack for management.
But Bea was still looking at him a little pensively.
Lightly, he patted the letter in his pocket. “Why do we not play a game?” he suggested. “Why do I not guess at the reason you sent this letter? And if I am right, you may simply say so?”
She looked up from her grass chain, and stared at him for a moment. “All right,” she said.
Napier appeared to consider it. “I think you became a bit afraid last year when your Uncle Hepplewood grew ill,” he said. “He became a little . . . distraught, didn’t he?”
Again, she lifted her slender shoulders. “They would not let me see him,” she said quietly. “But I could hear him sometimes. Saying . . . things. He was scared. Then he died.”
Napier thought he understood. “That must have been frightening,” he said, “to know that your uncle was so ill he could not think clearly.”
She gave a little nod.
“And when your papa died a few months later,” said Napier, “I’m sure that frightened you even more. But Bea, he died of an apoplexy. It was unforeseeable.”
“I suppose.” Her chin came up almost defiantly. “But Uncle Hep kept saying that people were trying to kill him. And then P-Papa said . . .”
Her face began to crumple a little.
Napier reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. “He said that people were trying to plague him to death,” he gently suggested. “Is that it? But he did not say it directly to you, I’m guessing?”
She gave a short shake of her head that set her ringlets bouncing.
“Perhaps you heard him saying it to himself?” Napier gently pressed. “Perhaps when you were playing in the pantry, and he did not know you were there? It must have sounded a little like the things Lord Hepplewood said.”
“Well, no one believed Uncle Hep, and look what came of it.” Bea’s lip thrust out a little stubbornly. “And I did not make it up. Mrs. Jansen thinks I did, but I did not. Papa said it all the time. He even said it to Craddock once. You can ask him.”
Napier patted her shoulder. “Oh, I believe you,” he assured her. “But Bea, it is something grown-ups just say. It’s just an expression—and our saying it means we’re frustrated. It doesn’t mean we actually believe people wish us ill.”
Her gaze locked with his, hard and fierce. “But Papa did die,” she said grimly. “He said it would happen—over and over—and then it did. They nagged and they shouted and they said vile things until he just died.”
Her vehemence shocked him. For a long moment, Napier considered it, and when he spoke, he chose his words with great care. “And when you say they, Bea, who do you mean, exactly? It will be our secret—and I’m very good at keeping secrets, too.”
Beatrice stared into the grass, her blonde eyebrows knotted. “Gwen and Diana,” she whispered accusingly. “Gwen shouted at him and Diana cried—Diana always cries—I hate her. And then—and then I don’t know what happened! Not for sure. But Papa fell down! And then he—he just died.”
Napier caught her hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze—and this time he held it. “Bea, were you in the pantry that day?” he said. “Remember, I’m just guessing. But you wrote to me, Bea, for a reason. Because you were worried. And because I catch bad people, yes? I don’t think there are any bad people in this story—merely some unhappy ones—but let’s be sure, hmm?”
With what looked like grave reluctance, she nodded.
“All right,” he said calmly. “Now, was the pantry door open?”
She gave a tight shake of her head.
“But there was some sort of quarrel?” he said. “With Gwyneth and Diana?”
“First Gwen,”
she said resentfully, “then Diana.”
“Bea,” he said solemnly, “I think you should tell me, as best you can, exactly what you heard.”
When she did not respond, he tipped her chin up with his finger. “Bea, it troubles you,” he said. “I know it does. But I cannot understand it—or more importantly, explain it to you—unless you tell me.”
She exhaled slowly, then her gaze caught his, regretful and wary. “Gwen came into Papa’s study. She started a big fight. It was about Mrs. Jansen and that house again.”
“Ah, the dower house, perhaps?”
“Yes, that,” said the girl. “She wanted it, and she wanted to take Mrs. Jansen away to live in it.”
Napier nodded. “And what did your Papa say?”
“That Gwen needed to hush up and go to London and find a husband,” said Bea. “They fought about it all the time. But this time Gwen said that if he would not give her the house, she was going to take Mrs. Jansen and go back to Amsterdam. And Papa said she was not so big he could not put her over his knee. That she was un-unnatural—and wanted straightening out. And then they yelled some more, and Papa said she was going to plague him to death.”
“Ah,” said Napier quietly. “And then what happened?”
Again, the little shrug. “The door slammed, and Papa said some bad words. Then he went to the table and got his brandy. I heard him put it on the desk, and take out the stopper. It makes a chink! sound.”
“Yes, I know exactly.” Napier wished all his witnesses had such a memory. “You’re very good, Bea, with your descriptions.”
“Then someone knocked on the door, and it was Diana.”
“Ah. And did they quarrel, too?”
The girl’s fretful look returned. “Not at first,” she said. “Diana just cried. And then she said she did not want to marry him.”
“I see,” said Napier. “Had you overheard such discussions before?”
Bea nodded in an exaggerated fashion. “Yes,” she said darkly. “But this time Diana said that she was begging him. That she would do anything, if only he would tell Aunt Hepplewood.”
“And what, exactly, did Diana want him to tell her?”
“That he didn’t want to marry her,” said Bea.
“Ah,” said Napier.
It made sense. Diana was cowed by Lady Hepplewood. Her father was dependent upon the Hepplewood estate, not just for his position as steward, but for the very roof over his head.
“And what did your father say to that?” he went on.
“He said she was just having bridal nerves again,” said the girl, “and that it would all go away once the vows were said, and that he would be gentle. Then she cried even worse, and said she couldn’t bear it. That she did not love him, and could never love him, and did not want him to touch her. That the very notion was ab-abhorrish or something—to her.”
“Abhorrent, perhaps?”
“Yes, that.”
Napier winced. Strong words indeed—and ugly ones, too. He was glad Bea didn’t seem to grasp their full import.
“I see,” he said quietly. “Well, Bea, that is unfortunate. I think we are very right to keep it a secret.”
“And then they had a quarrel,” said the girl, more intently. “They started shouting. Diana said she hated him, and she was not a broodmare, whatever that means.”
“Hmm,” said Napier warily.
“And Papa started yelling—he never yelled—but he did, and he said she was mad as a hatter, and that a gentleman mightn’t beg off and that she could just damned well do it herself.”
Jesus Christ.
For an instant, Napier shut his eyes. “And then what?”
“I heard him cry out,” she said. “And then I heard glass break. And Diana ran out screaming that Papa had collapsed. She lied, and said she’d just found him like that. But . . . she plagued him to death. That’s what I think.”
Napier took her hand again. “Bea, I always want to know when something worries you. But Dr. Underwood told me that your papa had an apoplexy. That’s something no one can see and no one can predict.”
She lifted her slender shoulders again and sighed. “Anyway, he’s dead now, isn’t he?” she said sadly. “And now I wonder if—”
“Yes? If what, sweet?”
Bea cut him a dark look. “What if someone starts plaguing Grandpapa?” she said quietly. “What if he is . . .” Her little face started to crumple.
“They won’t,” he said, giving her hand another squeeze. “Bea, I promise.”
She lifted her gaze to his, looking somewhat reassured. “Well,” she said, “I still think Gwen is just mean. And I still hate Diana.”
Napier drew the child close, and set an arm about her shoulders. The responsible adult in him knew he should tell her not to hate anyone. But the policeman in him knew that many people had earned a measure of hatred.
Was Gwen one of them? Or Diana?
No. Gwen might be a bit blunt and mannish, and Diana was trapped in the thankless role of poor female relation. She had no power over her own dominion, and perhaps it had driven her to despair.
“I’ll tell you what I think we should do,” he said, standing and pulling Beatrice to her feet. “You should let me worry about all this from here out, and trust that I will deal with it. Can you do that?”
The child nodded.
“You may count on me, Bea,” he said as reassuringly as he knew how. “And tomorrow, perhaps you and Mrs. Jansen and I might take a walk into the village?”
“To the village?”
“Yes,” said Napier. “Perhaps you might like to gather some flowers for your Papa’s grave? Then we’ll take them, the three of us. I used to do that with my father. Especially when I was uncertain about things—work things, especially—I’d just go and talk out loud to him.”
“So he’s dead, too?”
Napier nodded. “Yes,” he said. “He was your Uncle Nicholas, you know, and I’m sorry he did not live long enough to meet you. But we can still talk to them, Bea. And it will reassure you, I hope, that your father is happy in heaven, and always watching over you.”
“All right,” she said softly.
He gave her an awkward pat on the head. “And after that’s done,” he added, “I think we should stop at that bakery. The one with those little cakes you told me about.”
“The sesame ones?” Her eyes widened.
“Absolutely,” he said, taking her hand. “The sesame ones.”
CHAPTER 14
A Voice from the Grave
Lisette arrived, breathless, at the top of the east staircase. The corridor was as quiet as it had been in the wee hours of the morning when she’d rushed back to her room practically naked to collapse into a sobbing heap, intent on ruthlessly forcing herself to face the truth.
Her affaire de coeur with Royden Napier was at an end.
She had known, of course, it could not last—that the heated passion would scorch her in the end. Yet she had allowed herself to be lulled into denial by his touch. But Lisette had laid her life’s path long ago, and if her older and wiser self now yearned to go back—to alter that awful course she’d taken—it still could not be done.
Nonetheless, she could not make herself regret a moment spent in his arms. She didn’t even regret their quarrels. She would have those memories to cling to when Napier was gone from her life.
Hastily, she passed by his door, wondering if she should knock. But she simply could not face him again until she was more settled in her mind. Instead she burst into her own room to see that Fanny was there before her.
The maid was already laying out the clothes that were to be packed. “Oh, hullo, miss,” she said. “Just leave the door open, if you please. That Mr. Prater’s gone up to the lumber room to fetch down your trunks.”
Lisette scarcely heard her. “Fanny,” she said breathlessly, “where’s my brown morocco folio?”
Fanny’s brow furrowed. “Ah!” she said, turning and going into the dre
ssing room. “Never took it from your carpetbag, I daresay.”
Lisette followed her in, watching anxiously as Fanny rummaged. On a triumphant sound, the maid drew out the tall, thin book. Lisette seized it from her hands. Going to the window, she flipped it open on the sill and began to page frantically through the news clippings she and Fanny had diligently pasted in it for years on end. Jack Coldwater’s journalistic oeuvre, such as it was.
“What are you after?” asked Fanny curiously.
“An old Examiner article,” she said. “The one about the Golden Eagle burning.”
Fanny set a hand on her arm. “Settle down, miss. The house ain’t afire. Look to the very front.”
Lisette started over, finding it at once. “Actually, no, not this one,” she said her eyes rapidly scanning it. “The one from the next day. Or perhaps the day after that. About Mrs. Stanton.”
Calmly, Fanny flipped to the next page. “It’s right here, miss,” she said. “But awfully old news.”
Hastily, Lisette reread it, then gave it a good yank, ripping the entire page—newsprint, paste and paper—from the portfolio. Her mind worked frantically. Mrs. Stanton had died quickly—and for reasons no one could immediately discern. Lord Hepplewood had lingered. And then—suddenly—the end had come.
“Pencil,” she ordered, holding out a hand as she read.
“Righty-ho,” said Fanny.
Sitting down at the desk, Lisette began circling the pertinent parts of the article, Fanny bent over her shoulder. “I surely don’t see, miss, why you’re so fixed on poor Mrs. Stanton again.”
“It’s that dratted dream,” Lisette muttered, now scribbling in the margins. “It’s haunting me, Fanny.”
And the thing was, indeed, more nightmare than dream, variants of which she’d suffered through the years. Usually the dream was of Ashton reeling drunkenly as he tried to snatch the article. Other times the words vanished as fast as she wrote them.
But sometimes—more and more of late—the dream began on the docks with the gruesome sight of Mrs. Stanton convulsing and near death. Since coming to Burlingame, Lisette had dreamt pieces of it over and over. The first might have been happenstance. But beyond that? Well, there was no accounting for inner workings of the human mind.
