Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “I wash my hands of it,” he said, his voice clipped. “When you have thrown this money away with both hands and are leading a pauper’s life, do not come to me for help.”

  Father leveled his clear green gaze at Bellmont. “No, I daresay she will come to me if she has need, and I will help her, as I have always helped all of my children.”

  Bellmont flushed deeply and I winced. It was unkind of Father to needle him so. Bellmont had called upon Father’s famous indulgence himself once or twice, but applying for a favor rankled him twice as deeply as it did the rest of us. He felt that, as the eldest and the heir, he should be entirely self-sufficient, which was ludicrous, really. He should and did take his livelihood from the March estate. He oversaw many of the family holdings on Father’s behalf, and his future was so deeply entwined with the future of the family that it was impossible to separate them. Even his title was on loan, a courtesy title devolved from Father’s estate at Bellmont Abbey. He had nothing to call his own except dead men’s shoes, and I think the highly Oedipal flavor of his existence sometimes proved too much for him.

  As it did now. His complexion still burnished from his humiliation, he rose, offered us the most perfunctory of courtesies and took his leave, closing the door softly behind him. Bellmont would never create a scene, never slam a door. He was too controlled for that, although I sometimes wondered if a little explosion now and again mightn’t be just what he needed. He longed so much for normalcy, for a regular, unremarkable life. We were alike in that respect, both of us rather desperate to be ignored, to be regarded as conventional. We had spent a great deal of time and effort suppressing our inherent strain of wildness. I knew it cost Bellmont deeply. I wondered what it had cost me.

  I looked up to find Father smiling down a little at Crab.

  “Oh, don’t. It’s dreadful. I did not mean to hurt his pride—and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Bellmont cannot abide being made a figure of fun.”

  “Then he ought not to provide such good sport,” Father retorted. He and Mr. Teasdale made a few polite noises at each other and the solicitor, after several more protestations of his willingness to be of service, left us. Father gave me a moment to unbend, but I did not. I kept my gaze fixed upon the window and its rather unpromising view of the garden. For May, it seemed rather unenthusiastic, and I wondered if Whittle was attempting sobriety again. He was a brilliant gardener when inspired by drink, but when he turned temperate, the garden invariably suffered.

  “Oh, don’t be in a pet, Julia. Monty will come round, he’s just having a bit of a difficult patch just now. I remember forty—a hard age. It is the age when a man discovers that he is all that he is ever going to be. Some men are rather pleased at the discovery. I suspect your brother is not.”

  I shrugged. “I suppose I shall have to take your word for that. But you might be kinder to him, you know. He wants to please you so badly.”

  Father fixed me with a stern look and I broke, smiling. “Well, all right, that was a bit thick. But I do think he would like it if you approved of him. It would make life so much simpler.”

  Father waved a hand. “A simple life is a dull life, my pet. Now, tea? Or something more medicinal, like brandy?”

  I shuddered. “Tea, thank you. Brandy always reminds me of the cough preparations Nanny forced us to drink as children.”

  He rang the bell. “That is because it was brandy. Nanny always said the best remedy for a cough was cherry brandy, taken neat.”

  That did not surprise me. Nanny had always been one for ladling dubious remedies down our throats. It was a wonder she never poisoned one of us.

  Hoots appeared, his long mournful face even more dour in honour of the occasion. Hoots had been with the family for more than forty-five years and often viewed our tragedies as his own. Father gave him the order and we waited in comfortable silence for our refreshment, the quiet broken only by the ticking of the clock and the occasional contented sigh from Crab.

  When Hoots reappeared, laden not only with tea, but sandwiches, cakes, bread and butter, and a variety of pastries, we both perked up considerably. So did Crab. She sat politely on her haunches while I poured. I handed Father a plate with an assortment of titbits and laid another for Crab with slivered-ham sandwiches. She ate noisily, her thick tail slapping happily on the carpet. Father toyed with a scone, then cleared his throat.

  “I believe that I owe you an apology, Julia.”

  “For what? The tea is quite good. Cook even remembered a dish of that plum jam I like so well.”

  “Not the tea, child.” He paused and put his cup down carefully, as though weighing his words and the china. “I ought never to have allowed you to marry Edward. I thought you could be happy with him.”

  I dropped another lump of sugar into my tea and stirred. “I was. I think. At least as happy as I could have been with anyone under the circumstances.”

  He said nothing, but I could tell from the way he was crumbling his macaroon he was troubled. I forced a smile. “Really, Father. You’ve nothing with which to reproach yourself. You told me at the time that you had doubts. I am the one who insisted.”

  He nodded. “Yes, but I have often thought in the years since that I should have done more to prevent it.”

  A thought struck me then. “Have you talked about it? Within the family?” I remembered Beatrice, bent stiffly over her needlework, not meeting my eyes.

  “Yes. Your sisters were concerned for you, especially Bee. The two of you were always so close, I suppose she could sense your unhappiness. She said you never confided in her. I knew that if you had not broached the subject to her or to Portia, that you had not spoken to any of your sisters.”

  “No, Nerissa is not an easy confidante. Nor Olivia, for that matter. Perfection is a chilly companion.”

  He grinned in spite of himself. “They can be a bit much, I suppose. But, child, if you were truly unhappy, you should have come to us, any of us.”

  “To what purpose? I am a March. Divorce would have been out of the question. I offered to release Edward from his marital obligations, but he would not hear of it. So why speak of it at all? Why air our soiled linen for the whole family to see?”

  “Because it might have eased your loneliness,” he said gently. “Did you never speak to Griggs?”

  I put my cup down. I had no taste for the tea now. It had gone bitter in my mouth. “I did. There was nothing to be done. A bit of a shock, really, coming from a family as prolific as ours. You would have thought I could have managed at least one.”

  Silence fell again, and Father and I both resumed our teacups. It gave us something to do at least. I offered him another scone and he fed Crab a bit of seedcake.

  “So, do you mean to keep Valerius with you at Grey House?” he asked finally. I was relieved at the change in subject, but only just. Val was a very sore point with Father and I knew I had best tread carefully.

  “For a while at least. And the Ghoul, as well. Aunt Hermia is concerned about the propriety of my sharing a house with Val and Simon without a proper chaperone.”

  Father snorted. “Simon is bedridden. His infirmity alone should be sufficient chaperone.”

  I shrugged. “No matter. Aunt Ursula has actually been rather helpful. As soon as she realized that Simon was not expected to live, she settled right in. She reads to him and brings him jellies from the kitchens. They are quite cozy together.”

  “And Val?” he persisted. “How does he fit into your little menagerie?”

  “He comes and goes—goes mostly. I do not see much of him, but that suits us both. And when he is at home, his is quite good company.”

  Father’s brows lifted. “Really? You surprise me.”

  “Well, he stays in his room and leaves me to myself. He doesn’t demand to be entertained. I don’t think I could bear that.”

  “Is he still pursuing his studies?”

  I chose my words deliberately. Val’s insistence upon studying medicine had been the source
of most of his considerable troubles with Father. Had he wanted theoretical knowledge, or even a physician’s license, Father might have approved. But becoming a surgeon was no gentleman’s wish for his son. It would put Val beyond the pale socially, and close any number of doors for him.

  “I am not certain. As I said, I see little of him.”

  “Hmm. And what is his diagnosis of Simon’s condition?” The words were laced with sarcasm, but lightly. Perhaps having Val out of the house was softening his stance.

  “Val has not seen him, not medically. Simon is attended by Doctor Griggs. It was only at Griggs’ insistence that Simon did not come to the funeral. He would have had himself propped in a Bath chair, but Griggs was afraid the damp air would be too much for him. He continues the same. His heart is failing. It will probably be a matter of months, a year at most, before we bury him as well.”

  “Has he made his peace with that?”

  “I do not know. We have not spoken of it. There will be time yet.”

  Father nodded and I sipped at my tea. I felt a little better now, but not much. Edward’s death had left me with vast financial resources but few personal ones. I had a year of mourning left to endure, and another loss yet to grieve.

  “Your Aunt Hermia will expect a sizable donation to her refuge when word of your inheritance becomes public.”

  I smiled. “She may have it. The refuge is a very worthy enterprise.” The refuge was properly known as the Whitechapel Refuge for the Reform of Penitent Women. It was Aunt Hermia’s special project, and one that simply gorged itself on money. There was always one more prostitute to feed and clothe and educate, one more bill for candles or smocks or exercise books that demanded to be paid. Aunt Hermia had managed to assemble an illustrious group of patrons who paid generously to support the reformation of prostitutes and their eventual rehabilitation from drudges to proper servants or shopgirls, but even their pockets were not bottomless. She was constantly on the prowl for fresh donors, and I was only too happy to oblige her. She prevailed upon the family to visit occasionally and teach the odd lesson, but I far preferred to send money. It was quite enough that I hired my own staff from her little flock of soiled doves. Enduring Morag was as much as I was prepared to suffer.

  “And I am sure a pound or two will find its way into the coffers of the Society of Shakespearean Fellows,” I told Father. He beamed. The society was his pet, as the refuge was Aunt Hermia’s. It mostly consisted of a group of aging men writing scholarly papers about the playwright and scathing commentaries on everyone else’s papers. There was a good deal of recrimination and sometimes even violence at their monthly meetings. Father enjoyed it very much.

  “Thank you, my dear. I shall dedicate my current paper to you. It concerns the use of classical allusion in the sonnets. Did you know—”

  And that is the last that I heard. Father was entirely capable of wittering on about Shakespeare until doomsday. I sipped at my tea and let him talk, feeling rather drowsy. The numbness of the morning had worn away and I was simply bone tired. I drained the last sip of tea and went to replace it on the saucer.

  But as I put it down, I noticed the spent tea leaves, swirled high onto the cup, curved perfectly into the shape of a serpent. I was no student of tasseomancy. I could not remember what the coil of a serpent meant. But we had known Gypsy fortune-tellers in Sussex, and I had had my future read in the leaves many times. I did not think that snakes were pleasant omens. I shrugged and tried to listen politely to Father.

  It was weeks before I troubled myself to discover what the serpentine tea leaves actually foretold. By that time, though, the danger was already at hand.

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  Murder most foul, as in the best it is,

  But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

  —William Shakespeare

  Hamlet

  My family lasted only as long as the funeral baked meats and libation held out. As soon as the platters were emptied and the decanters drained, they left, and Father took me back to Grey House. It looked different now, with its mourning wreaths and hatchments, muffled door knocker and shuttered windows. The mirrors and servants were draped in black crepe—not a particularly useful or attractive addition in either case. It was the most depressing homecoming I had ever known, and as the door shut solidly behind Father, I felt like the Mistletoe Bride.

  Thank goodness for Morag. She took one look at my woeful face, handed me an enormous whiskey and put me straight to bed. I had taken a little chill at the funeral, and for a day or so I luxuriated in blissful irresponsibility. Morag brought me meals on trays, nothing heavy or complicated, but simple, well-cooked dishes suited to my feeble appetite. She instructed Aquinas to turn away all callers and even refused to bring me the daily avalanche of mourning correspondence that continued to descend upon Grey House. The only letters she permitted me to read were those from my family, relations too far or too infirm to make the journey to London for the funeral. Unlike most letters of condolence, these were little masterpieces of originality, full of private family jokes and bits of news calculated to amuse rather than to comfort. My brother Ly sent a highly irreverent epic poem that he had dashed off in the warmth of the Italian sun while sipping a good deal of red wine. His traveling companion, my brother Plum, sent a tiny sketch of me in mourning, with black lace butterfly wings folded in grief. Morag found me weeping over both of them and ruthlessly swept them away with all the other correspondence she had forbidden me.

  “You’ll have time enough to deal with that lot when you’re well,” she told me severely. “Now finish your pudding and I will read you summat of Ivanhoe.” I did as I was told. It was just like being back in the nursery—dumplings and pots of milky tea, knightly stories and flannel-wrapped bricks. I was sorely tempted to remain there for my entire year of mourning.

  But eventually the tedium defeated me. I finally rose out of boredom, put on my widow’s weeds, submitted myself to Morag’s stunningly bad hairdressing, and went downstairs to begin answering my correspondence.

  And if I had expected that to relieve the boredom, I was entirely mistaken. Unlike those written by my family, these notes were invariably brief and unimaginative. They read like a series of practical applications in a guide to writing letters for all occasions, with the same phrases of hollow sympathy running through them all. I suppressed a snort. The sentiments were kindly meant, but these were the very people who would conveniently forget my existence now that I had no husband. It was an awkward business having a widow to dinner, so they would not. When my year of mourning was ended and I could respectably accept invitations, they would mean to ask me, but then someone would point out that I had inherited quite a lot of money and some nervous mama would remember the ugly little spinster she had not yet managed to pry out of her nursery and I would be struck from the list—not out of any personal dislike, but as a simple matter of mathematics. There were not enough gentlemen to go around for the young ladies as it was. Why lessen their chances further by tossing a personable young widow with a sizable purse into the mix? I had seen it happen too often to think that I would be an exception. No, once my year of mourning was finished, I would count myself lucky to be invited to Bellmont’s house for dinner.

  I pushed the letters aside and considered my situation. It was not a pleasant exercise. I had a home, but it was a draughty, gloomy sort of place now that I was alone. It had always been Edward’s home rather than mine, and had always reflected his personality. With his charm stripped away, it was a shell, and a theatrical one at that. Edward’s taste had been grander than mine, and all of the rooms had been decorated thematically. From the breakfast room with its birdcage stripes, to the drawing room with its Wedgwood-blue walls, Edward had expressed himself exuberantly. There had been no room left for my personality. Even my bedroom and boudoir had been decorated for me, as a wedding present from Edward. They were Grecian, all white marble and blue hangings. The effect was beautiful, but cold, rather like Edward hi
mself, I thought disloyally.

  Only my tiny study, tucked at the back of the house, an afterthought, had been left to my whims. I had brought in an elderly red sofa from March House, its velvet beginning to shred at the seams. There were needlepoint cushions embroidered by my legion of aunts, a cozy armchair that had been my mother’s. The pictures were not particularly good; Edward had commented with wry humour that they were just the thing for an old cottage in the Cotswolds. They were landscapes and portraits of animals, things I had found in the lumber rooms at Bellmont Abbey. They were not valuable, but they reminded me of the country where I had grown up, and I often found myself daydreaming my way into them, walking the painted green hills or petting the fluffy sheep. It was absurdly sentimental of me, but I was deeply attached to Sussex and the memories of my childhood. My mother had died when I was young, but the rest of my life there had been easy and uncomplicated. It was only in London where things seemed difficult.

  So, aside from my untidy little bolt-hole, I did not much like my house. Of course, I still had my family, I thought with some cheer. Ranging from the mildly odd to the wildly eccentric, they were some comfort. I knew that they loved me deeply, but I also knew that they understood me not at all. I had never fought a duel or run away with my footman or ridden a horse naked into Whitehall—all acts for which Marches were infamous. I did not even keep a pet monkey or wear turbans or dye my dogs pink. I lived quietly, conventionally, as I had always wanted, and I think I had been something of a disappointment to them.

  That left my health and my fortune—both of which could disappear overnight as I had seen often enough. I rubbed at my eyes. I was becoming cynical, and not doing much for my state of mind, either. I put my head down on the desk.

  “Darling, is it really so awful?” called a voice from the doorway. I looked up.

  “Portia. I did not know you were here.”

  “I told Aquinas not to announce me. I wanted to surprise you.”