I clutched her hand tighter.
“Mend these differences.” She opened her eyes to order us. “For I won’t be here much longer to bridge the gap.”
My breath tightened, knowing she was not speaking about returning to Germany.
The brackets at the corners of her mouth softened with compassion. “I have cancer.”
“No,” I gasped, though I didn’t know precisely what I was denying. That she had it, that she was telling the truth, or that she was going to die, as seemed to be the implication.
She patted my hand. “Yes.”
I blinked rapidly, trying to see through the wash of tears filling my eyes.
Mother turned away, perhaps unable to watch this scene play out. Her cool acceptance told me she already knew.
“Now, I don’t want you to fuss,” Tante Ilse continued as I dashed away a tear. “There’s nothing to be done. I’ve had a long, and mostly wonderful life. I’ve no complaints. And my mind . . . well, it is beginning to go.” She lifted her hand as if to touch my face, but then let it fall. “I know you noticed it, mein Liebchen. And I believe it is better this way—to go before it is all gone.” Her voice brightened. “But I’m not done quite yet. I may linger for a few more months. And I intend to make the most of those. Perhaps I’ll learn to play the violin.” She smiled at the idea. “I always wanted to.”
“There’s no treatments . . .” I began, but she cut me off.
“Nein. I’ve already been over and over that with your parents and your brother. We must accept what is.”
I nodded woodenly, wondering how long they’d known, and why no one had told me sooner.
“The important thing is that we move forward. But first, you have a murderer to catch.” She shook her head lightly. “Do not let me down.”
“The guests are arriving,” Mother murmured, moving away from the window.
It wasn’t custom to hold a funerary meal for a member of the staff, but with Bauer being a foreigner with no family to take on the responsibility, and only Tante Ilse to truly mourn her, Mother had decided our family would assume those traditions, albeit in a limited way.
She paused to pat Tante Ilse’s shoulder before leaving the room with the door cracked behind her.
I sniffed and forced myself to my feet, fighting the maelstrom of emotions churning inside me. A task, a goal, an action was just what I needed. And that’s exactly what Tante Ilse had given me. On purpose. The gleam in her eyes told me so. I leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek. Then setting my shoulders, I turned and strode from the room to face what must be done.
CHAPTER 28
Unfortunately, there was only so much pain and emotion a body could repress without the cracks beginning to show. The first of which splintered when I managed to corner Freddy in the drawing room while Mother and Father were ushering in the few neighbors they’d invited to the small funerary meal.
“Why didn’t you tell me Tante Ilse has cancer?” I hissed.
“She finally told you?”
“Yes!”
He held up his hands. “I’m sorry, Pip. She forbade me to do so. Not until she’d had a chance to talk to you herself.”
“I don’t care. You should have told me anyway,” I snapped, being forced to stifle my anger, as Mrs. Redmayne came over to greet us.
When I managed to extricate myself from the spiteful woman, another crack appeared when I bumped into Grace emerging from the cloak room. It was clear from her red-rimmed eyes that she’d been crying, but her miserable countenance immediately transformed to one of antagonism at the sight of me.
“What did you say to Cyril?” she demanded.
“He admitted he spoke to Bauer on the morning of the day she was killed,” I replied with little sympathy. “So Isaac Hardcastle was telling Freddy the truth.”
Her eyes shimmered briefly with uncertainty before being overshadowed once again by anger. “But that doesn’t mean he killed her.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I conceded, but was unwilling to say more.
She frantically searched my face. “But you think he did!”
“I never said that.”
“Oh, no wonder he left. He thinks you believe he’s a murderer.”
“He left?” I turned to gaze toward the sounds issuing from the drawing room, wondering how suspicious that was.
“Yes, he . . . he told me he wasn’t worthy of me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Of all the foolish, ridiculous nonsense! Of course he is.”
I didn’t respond, I couldn’t, for I wasn’t certain he was either. Not because of his injury. I could care less about that. And not because of his resentment and frustration at people for their assumptions that he’d contrived to be sent home with a Blighty wound. I could understand that, though he was in danger of letting those emotions overtake his life. But because I didn’t believe his affections toward Grace were fully engaged. It seemed to me that he cared for her simply because Grace adored him, and my sister deserved better. She deserved to be loved and adored in return.
“Now no one will want me,” she bemoaned into her handkerchief.
“Don’t be stupid, Grace,” I replied bluntly. “Of course someone will.”
She narrowed her eyes in affront. “Not like Cyril.”
“Better than Cyril. Quit being a sap.” I stalked away as she glared daggers at my back. I knew I could have handled that better, but truly, could she be more of a muttonhead? There were far more consequential things to be concerned with at the moment.
At dinner, Mrs. Wild was seated between me and Sidney. A seat that swiftly proved to be a trifle inhospitable when Sidney pressed a topic he knew I was not eager to pursue. Though it began innocently enough.
“Oh, Verity,” Mrs. Wild exclaimed with a light laugh. “You’ll never guess what one of our farmhands found the other day. Do you remember that contraption Rob and Henry built one summer? The one they tried to fly off the barn roof?”
I smiled at the memory, even as a twinge of pain stabbed my heart. “Yes.” They’d modeled it on a picture of one of the Wright brothers’ flyers they’d seen in a book. “But I thought it got busted into a dozen pieces.”
“It was, but apparently we never got rid of them.” She shook her head. “It’s a miracle those boys didn’t break their necks.”
“Rob was always interested in flying, then? And Henry, too?” Sidney turned to ask, his gaze briefly catching mine before sliding away.
“Henry? No. But Rob, oh, yes, he was enthralled with flying machines for as long as anyone can remember.” She looked to Mother, on Sidney’s other side.
“Yes, he was.” She agreed, setting down her glass. “Though I wish I’d realized then that allowing such an interest would lead to more heartache than merely a sprained ankle . . .”
I looked at Tim, seated across the table. His gaze remained trained on his plate, but I could tell by the flush in his cheeks that he’d heard what Mother had said.
“Rob might just as easily have died if he’d served in the infantry or the artillery, or the navy, even,” Sidney pointed out not unkindly.
“Yes,” she replied. “But at least, he would have had a better chance.”
No one could argue with that. Our flyboys had died in alarming numbers, especially at the start of the war.
“I remember that Rob was always building things,” Sidney prodded again.
“He was. When he was young, he would spend hours building with his blocks. I think he first picked up a hammer when he was about four or five.” Mother’s face softened in remembrance. “The first thing he made was a rickety little birdhouse.” She chuckled. “The roof was rather crooked, and I was certain it would fall down during the first stiff wind, but it lasted for a good four or five years before he replaced it with a much sturdier version.”
My gaze shifted to Father, finding him politely listening to whatever Mrs. Redmayne was telling him on his left, though his eyes strayed toward Mother from time to time, making me think he wa
sn’t entirely unaware of the topic being discussed at the opposite end of the table. What Mother didn’t know, and Rob had never suspected, was that Father periodically shored up the rickety walls of that little birdhouse. I’d caught him at it one summer morning, and he’d sworn me to secrecy.
“He built a number of things over the years. Shelves and stools. A dollhouse for Verity.” Mother arched her eyebrows at me. “Not that it saw much use until Grace came along.”
I didn’t rise to her bait, knowing that if I spoke, my voice would squeak and wobble. I was already struggling as it was not to become swamped in the specter of memories their words had raised. Afraid I would choke if I tried to swallow, I pushed around the roast beef and peas on my plate with my fork.
“I seem to recall his building skills coming in remarkably handy during the mischief he, Freddy, and the others used to make,” Sidney declared with a grin while purposely avoiding my quelling gaze. I was certain of that now.
But there was little I could do about it except clench my hands into fists in my lap and endure. Besides, I would be lying if I didn’t admit a part of me was also hungry to hear these reminiscences about Rob. As much as they stung, they also comforted. As such, I was torn between strangling my husband and wishing I could reach for his hand under the cover of the table. But Mrs. Wild, who was laughing softly, sat between us.
“Good heavens, the things the boys and Verity used to get up to,” she remarked. “And I’m sure there’s many more capers we were never made aware of, probably for our own good.”
I shrugged when they all turned to me, knowing better than to admit to anything.
Mrs. Wild giggled and shook her head.
“He built that treehouse out in the woods, too, didn’t he?” Sidney asked.
The bite of beef I’d decided to risk eating settled in my stomach like a hard lump.
“Why, yes,” Mother gasped. From the corner of my eye, I saw her reach out to touch his hand. “Fancy you remembering all this. How kind.”
I couldn’t recall the last time Mother had touched me with such affection or looked at me with anything approaching that level of approval. Pain and anger and guilt and grief washed over me in successive waves, making me hot and then cold, and it was all I could do not to react—to continue to sit there and breathe, even as my muscles urged me to run, to fight, to do something to alleviate the torment.
Somehow I made it through dinner and the exchange of small talk that followed, but as soon as the door closed behind our guests, I was out of the drawing room and up the stairs. Sidney caught up with me as I was donning my warmest hat and coat trimmed in beaver fur with epaulette and button trim.
His gaze dipped to the kid-leather walking boots encasing my feet. “Where are you going?”
I wanted to ignore him, but I knew he would only persist in asking until I answered, so I bit out a simple retort. “For a walk.”
“Alone?”
I glared at him in challenge, and then turned to yank open the drawer of the bedside table to extract his Luger pistol. After brandishing it before him, I tucked it into my pocket. “Yes.”
He watched as I pulled open a drawer in the bureau and removed a pair of gloves. “Is this about dinner?”
“If you have to ask . . .” I began to retort before he interrupted me, grabbing my arm to prevent me from leaving.
“I’m only trying to help. I thought if I raised the subject of Rob in a less direct way, you might find it easier.”
“Easier to discuss him in front of a dozen people when I can’t even talk about him when we’re alone?” I snapped incredulously. “I told you to leave it be. I’ll discuss it when I’m ready to discuss it.”
“It seemed to help your mother and Mrs. Wild,” he stated defensively, his jaw hardening as if he was the injured party.
I rounded on him. “Then would you like me to raise the subject of your war service and exactly what you experienced in the trenches the next time my family hosts a dinner party? It might help my brothers.” My voice was skirting the edge of mockery, but I was too angry to care.
“That is not the same thing,” he bit out.
“Oh, but it is.” I squared off before him. “You were out of line. And you know it.”
“You’ve given me no choice, Ver. How else am I supposed to help you?”
“Maybe you aren’t.”
His hard, glittering gaze flinched, and I narrowed my eyes, contemplating why that, of all things, had made him falter.
“Is that what this is all about, then? You helping me.” I stepped back. “You’ve made this all about yourself.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? After all, you said it. You’re supposed to help me.”
I could see the moment he began to question whether I might be right, and pressed my point. “I’m the one grieving, Sidney. So give me the space to do so.” With that, I twisted away, and pounded down the stairs toward the entry.
I didn’t stop to speak, or to even acknowledge anyone. I needed room to breathe, to move, to scream to the heavens if I so wished.
Everyone, everywhere, throughout the entire war and after, had always been watching, scrutinizing, assessing. Judging whether you were grieving right. Too little and you either hadn’t cared enough or weren’t acknowledging the loss. Too much and you were maudlin and overemotional, and damaging the war effort by not keeping enough of a stiff upper lip. You weren’t supposed to cry too much or talk too much about your pain, but drinking or taking morphine, or any of the other things you might do to excess to numb the ache were also frowned upon. You were compelled by society to conform to an impossible set of strictures, one that no one could hope to maintain for long without cracking.
In addition to the strain of those untenable strictures, I had also needed to be able to perform my job with the Secret Service. And that was a place where there was absolutely no room for error, no space for emotion, and no time for weakness. I became so good at denying those feelings either by will or the use of gin and dancing, that even when the war had ended and I had been demobbed, and finally there had been an opportunity to actually grieve, I found I no longer knew how. The pain had become planted so deeply inside me that I was no longer certain I could uproot it without also uprooting a large part of myself.
My angry strides took me down the drive to the old stone bridge that spanned the brook separating the house from the larger part of the woods. Here I paused, pressing my hands against the rough, craggy rocks to gaze over the side at the water trickling past. It burbled musically as it cascaded over the rocky bed, the only sound save the soughing of the wind through the trees and my own breaths. The caw of a rook pierced the air, shattering the peacefulness of the setting, and I lifted my gaze to watch it glide to a stop on the roof of the cottage.
The cold wind stung my cheeks, and sent the heavy clouds racing across the sky. I shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my coat, huddling against the breeze and contemplating how far into the wintery landscape I wanted to tread. The trees in the copse would serve as a type of windbreak, but that meant confronting Rob’s treehouse. There was also the matter of the implied promise I’d made to Sidney not to venture there alone, lest the German mystery man be lurking in the woods again, though I felt less than inclined to uphold that oath after what he’d done. My fingers traced the barrel of the gun in my right pocket. And in my defense, I would not be unarmed.
I was still standing there deciding what to do when Tabitha came running toward me, barking to alert me to her presence. She stopped beside me to spin circles in greeting, and I reached down to rub her ears while I waited for the man striding down the drive in his usual unhurried way to reach me. Given the fact it was my father, I knew there would be no shouting or histrionics, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t about to be scolded.
I straightened as he reached the bridge. He nodded to me in greeting, his stoic face telling me nothing about what he was thinking, before turning to gaze over the s
tone railing down the winding course of the brook as it trailed into the woods. Tucking my hands back in my pockets, I turned to stand by his side. He didn’t say anything at first, as content in his silence as I remembered. And soon enough, I became content in it as well, as my anxiety over what he might say began to fade.
I’d always admired my father, and though he was no more demonstrative than my mother with his affection, he had a way of making me feel loved nonetheless. It was in the way he looked at and spoke to me. The way he never questioned I knew my own mind, which hadn’t meant he’d always agreed with me or let me have my say. But since I’d wed Sidney, he’d always respected my choices, regardless of what his opinion might have been of them.
“There’ll be more snow by morning,” he finally remarked as he surveyed the skies and breathed deep of the cool air. “Enough to coat the fells.”
I made a noise of assent, trusting he knew what he was talking about.
“But Mr. Kidds will make sure all the ewes make it into the field barns for the night,” he said, speaking of his foreman.
As would be the priority of all the other farmers in the area. Which meant if that straw-haired German stranger was staying in one of them somewhere, he was at greater risk of being discovered.
“Well, Verity.” He inhaled and exhaled, finally coming to the reason he’d followed me. “Your arrival has certainly caused no small amount of turmoil.”
It wasn’t said with rancor—far from it—but his words smarted all the same.
“I don’t try to cause problems,” I replied in a small voice.
“Oh, I know that. Just as I know the reasons you didn’t come home after Rob’s death must have been good ones.” He turned to look down at me, a kindness reflected in his eyes that I had not expected. “Just as I know that you’ve been grieving as much as the rest of us, whether you show it or not.”
Murder Most Fair Page 33
