A Gift From a Goddess

by Maggi Andersen

  Chapter Eight

  After the initial shock, Hebe had adopted the view that she had no right to be ungrateful. Her new bedchamber was comfortable and clean, and she was well fed. That was far more than many could claim. But despite talking firmly to herself, she couldn’t banish the wretchedness. It was the end of hope. A future of dreary servitude stretched ahead.

  Despite the worry and danger, she’d faced in London, she had been free to make her own decisions. As her savings grew, so did the anticipation that something better awaited her around the corner.

  While her mother rested, Hebe took the opportunity to pen a letter to Sally at the small desk in her bedchamber, which overlooked the back garden. They’d left London so hurriedly, she’d been unable to tell Sally they were going to Brighton. Although she would love to ask if she’d heard from Marigold, Hebe didn’t want to put the burden of a reply on her friend, who wasn’t proficient at writing, and the post expensive.

  She finished her letter and addressed it. Outside, Aunt Prudence, surrounded by bees, and looking like some strange otherworldly creature, puffed smoke about from some apparatus while she roamed among the hives. A dark veil of net attached to her wide-brimmed hat covered her face. She wore something that resembled a man’s linen coat, large gloves, and boots. Hebe quickly averted her gaze from the worrying sight.

  As she considered how to send Sally’s letter without her mother learning of it, Mary knocked on the door.

  “Lady Prudence wishes you to come into the garden, Miss Fenchurch.”

  Fearing the worst, Hebe followed the maid down the stairs. They left the house and crossed the lawns. Some distance away, the gardener added more dry leaves to a smoldering pile, the smoke curling into the pale gray sky to be snatched and carried away by the cool autumn breeze. “Is that Diggory?”

  “Yes, miss,” Mary said. “’E’s a good sort. Don’t let ’is appearance worry you.”

  Hebe flicked another curious glance in his direction, but the hunched figure was too far away for her to discern anything unusual about him.

  Her aunt advanced toward her, holding out a spare veiled hat. “Put this on, Hebe. You have nothing to fear. The smoke calms the bees. I’ll show you how to collect the honeycomb.”

  Hebe settled the hat on her head. Her worst nightmare had come true. She would spend her life working with bees. Her aunt explained how to collect the honeycomb as she removed a frame from the hive and carefully wiped the bees away. Hebe stepped back as they swirled angrily into the air. Aunt Prudence employed some kind of implement, transferring the honeycomb to a plate before returning the frame to the hive.

  Through the dark gauze which gave a new and perplexing view of the scene, she trailed after her aunt as she trudged around the hives, while the bees buzzed close to her face, appearing anything but calm and making her flinch.

  Intent on following her aunt, Hebe managed to show enthusiasm and ask appropriate questions. An hour later, she was released from the suffocating net hood and followed her back to the house.

  Aunt Prudence, obviously pleased with her, removed her hat, patted her hair, and smiled. “Time for tea.”

  “I must tell Mama.”

  “No, let her rest. I’ll have a tray sent up.”

  While Bertie, a colorfully plumed parrot, swung upside down from his perch and fixed Hebe with a malevolent eye, her aunt took what appeared to be a rolled-up chart from a cupboard. When they sat together on the sofa, she spread it out on the table in front of them. She turned to Hebe with an earnest expression. “I have been studying your astrological chart. Life has been troublesome for you, which is to be expected, as you have been under the influence of Mars.”

  “Oh?” Hebe knew Mars to be the God of war and the son of Jupiter and Juno. Why he should influence her life was disturbing and a little intriguing. She leaned forward but gained no further knowledge from what appeared to be a confusion of astrological symbols.

  “Yes. Most worrying.” Aunt Prudence nodded. “And although Mars no longer rules over you, I’m afraid things are not going to improve for some time.”

  Despite her skepticism, Hebe’s heart sank. It seemed she was ill-fated.

  Her aunt patted her hand. “You mustn’t despair, for Venus has entered one of her celestial homes. Unfortunately, Venus makes a strong connection with Saturn, the celestial minister in charge of imposing austerity.”

  “Really?” Austerity didn’t sound good. Foolish to hope even for the briefest second that Venus might be the harbinger of romance. Hebe sagged back in her seat.

  “However,” her aunt traced a line on the chart, “The link is both supportive and harmonious. There will be an interesting development.”

  Hebe blinked. “What sort of development, Aunt?”

  “I shall do a complete chart and advise you of what lies ahead. Best to be prepared.”

  Hebe couldn’t visualize anything changing. Mars still hovered over her, warlike and destructive, she was sure of it.

  When the maid brought the tea things in, Hebe cleared her throat. “I thought I might walk to the village, Aunt Prudence.”

  “What village?” Her aunt’s eyebrows rose. “Brighton is too far. The nearest village is several miles away by road. If you set out over the fields, you’re sure to get lost or fall afoul of the farmer’s bull. Is there something you need? Something I have failed to provide?”

  “No, no. I am extremely comfortable here. I have a letter I wish to post.”

  Her aunt seized a small gold bell on the table beside her and rang it with vigor.

  The door opened, and a bulky man with coffee-colored skin and black hair hurried in. Her aunt spoke to him in an indecipherable language.

  He approached Hebe and held out a very large hand, palm up.

  “Give Diggory the letter. He will post it for you.” Aunt Prudence prepared the tea from an exotically painted canister and added hot water to the teapot from a jug. A sweet, slightly woodsy fragrance arose with the steam.

  Hebe removed the letter from her pocket, smoothed it out and gave it to him. “Thank you, Diggory.”

  He nodded and left the room.

  “Diggory doesn’t speak more than a few words of English,” her aunt explained. “It is fortunate that I can converse in his language.”

  Hebe accepted a cup and saucer from her aunt. “How did Diggory come to be in England?”

  “His life was in danger, so I brought him home with me from British Ceylon.”

  “You have visited Ceylon, Aunt?”

  “Yes. Dimbulla, a tea-growing area. I spent three years working in a mission there. Diggory cannot go back now, not since the armed uprising in ’18.”

  Hebe realized she knew very little about her aunt and even less about Ceylon. She wondered why her father had never told her any of this. Had her grandfather wiped his hands of his daughter because she was different?

  “One does what one can,” her aunt said cryptically.

  It seemed to be far more than most people did. She began to observe her eccentric aunt in a new light.

  In her room, her mother sat drinking her tea. “Mama, did you know that Aunt Prudence spent three years abroad? Working in a mission?”

  Her mother shook her head but didn’t appear surprised. “She’s known as the black sheep of the family. Your father told me she doesn’t get on with your grandfather, but he never said why. She was seldom at Longford House either for Christmas or family occasions.”

  How harsh and judgmental people could be, Hebe thought. Once you were given a label, it seemed you could never shed it.

  ~~~

  Lewis rode into the village and spent a pleasant morning talking to the shopkeepers. While his horse was shod at the blacksmith’s he ate luncheon at the big country inn beside the river and played a game of skittles. When retrieving his horse, he met his neighbors, Lord and Lady Banbridge, who invited him to dinner.

  In the late afternoon, he rode out to visit his tenant farmers, and discussed the rethatc
hing of their cottages. That evening, in the Banbridge’s handsome stone mansion set in a nice park, Lewis enjoyed a good dinner and played whist with them. Their young daughter, Amy, who was making her debut made up the four. Despite the uncomfortable thought that he had a marriage minded mama living over the hill, Lewis enjoyed the company and the ride home by the light of the moon on his favorite horse, Sabre. He used to love this life, and even though he felt invigorated to be here, he acknowledged it would never be as sweet as it once was.

  Tomorrow, he would meet with his gamekeeper and his steward to discuss those improvements to the tenant cottages, plus the quail shoot that was to take place during the coming month. Very necessary, he’d been assured, to cull the birds that had bred without interruption for two Seasons.

  Emmy had observed that if he were to marry again, he would spend more time here, hold a hunt ball, attend the village fetes. He knew the villagers would benefit from it. He was an absent landlord for most of the year, whereas in the past, he and Laura had been in residence for most of the autumn, Christmas, and again in mid-summer. They were known for their house parties, and the social events Laura delighted in.

  The next day, Lewis wandered through the rooms of the old house with its snug low beamed ceilings. It was steeped in family history with the clutter of objects collected by his father on his travels, his mother’s tapestries, the splendid Eastern rugs, the Chinese porcelain, the oil paintings, and several of his favorite sculptures.

  Regrettable that he had no one to enjoy it with, but he hadn’t wished for company. Even though little evidence of Laura remained—her brother had demanded he be given the portrait done of her as a young woman before she married Lewis—the sadness and the sense of failure still gathered force within these walls.

  At the stables he mounted his stallion, and with his two greyhounds galloping at his heels, rode out to speak with his gamekeeper, taking note of a fallen fence as he passed by.

  In the coming days, Lewis’ restlessness increased, and his mind returned to the unfinished business he’d left behind in London. He should destroy the statue if he didn’t plan to complete it. Move on to something else. What was wrong with him? He’d never been so indecisive about his work.

  After an early morning ride, he returned to the house for breakfast, and picked up his mail from the silver server in the Great Hall. Several invitations from neighbors, and one from the vicar appealing to him to attend the church fete.

  He took Emmy’s letter into the breakfast room and read it while he drank his coffee. She wrote that his model’s death now fueled drawing room gossip. One of the more lurid scandal rags had discovered Marigold had been strangled like Laura. It’s horrible, Lewis, Emmy added, perhaps you should stay away for a while until some other scandal erupts to replace it. And hopefully, the murderer will soon be found.

  Emmy offered good advice, but he was greatly disturbed that she’d come to hear of it, especially, in her delicate state. Lewis was sorely tempted to return, but after giving it serious thought, he failed to see how his presence in London would change anything. In fact, it might make things worse, so he resisted the urge to meet the matter head on. Instead, Lewis and a tenant farmer dug a trench to irrigate his fields. He returned home at night exhausted enough to sleep like the dead.

  Physical work might make the body tired, but he’d discovered it failed to still the mind. Hebe remained uppermost in his thoughts. It seemed unlikely that Marigold’s murder was linked to Laura’s. Almost two years had passed since Laura’s death, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility. And there was Crabbe lurking about, still free. How might he alert Hebe while not giving her away to her mother? If he did manage to get word to her what good would it do?

  He rose and served himself eggs and bacon from the warming dishes. At the table, he glanced out of the window. No sign of rain, he would lend a hand to get that fallen fence fixed. And, as he remained longer than he’d intended, he would take pity on his annoyingly loquacious valet and send for him.

  Chapter Nine

  The days passed slowly while Hebe’s mother regained her strength and vigor. On a misty afternoon which kept her aunt indoors working on her charts, Mama asked Hebe to walk with her in the garden.

  “I intend to take the stage next Wednesday,” Mama said as they strolled over the lawns toward the stream, the air still and moist and smelling of wet earth. “I will write to you as soon as I can after I reach your grandfather’s home in Tunbridge Wells, to let you know I’ve arrived safely.” In response to Hebe’s concerned expression, Mama squeezed her arm. “Please don’t worry that I’m abandoning you. I need to talk to your grandfather as I have said. He may be in financial difficulty. His grief on losing his son will have affected him deeply. It always helps to talk about these things. There might be something I can do to help. What I don’t wish to happen is for you to languish here when you should at least be attending the assemblies in Brighton where you might meet a suitable husband. I shall speak to your aunt about it before I leave.

  “Brighton is a popular place with the beau monde,” Mama said. “In the summer, many visit the town to enjoy the balls the Prince of Wales holds at the Royal Pavilion. Your father and I attended one once, it was dreadfully crowded and noisy, and so hot I feared I would faint. But it is the most remarkable building, and the exotic décor so very striking. I hope that your aunt will take you there.”

  Hebe suspected her mother’s request could fall on deaf ears, but she refrained from saying so. She worried about her going off alone on another exhausting journey. What would happen if she was turned away at the gates of Longford House? “I will miss you, Mama.” She kissed her cheek.

  Mama smiled sadly. “How blessed I am to have such a good daughter.”

  Would Mama think that if she knew the truth? That her daughter was an artist’s model? Hebe couldn’t deal with that now and pushed the thought away.

  On the day before her mother was to depart, a letter arrived for Hebe. It was handed to her mother while Hebe was in the garden assisting her aunt with the hives.

  When she came in her mother was studying Sally’s handwriting with a perplexed expression. “Who is Miss Sally Fortune?”

  Hebe tamped down the impulse to snatch it from her. She held out her hand. “Someone I met in London where I worked.”

  Her mother frowned. “It might be best if you put the dreadful episode behind you, Hebe.” But she handed the letter to her without further comment. Hebe scurried upstairs to read it. It was so good of Sally to write. She hadn’t expected a letter.

  The vision of Sally laboring over it made Hebe smile fondly. She missed her. While sitting on the bed, it took her a few minutes to decipher the scrawled lines on the page. When the message became clear, she cried out in horror. Marigold murdered! Was it her horrible brother, Seth? She read on and discovered Marigold had been found strangled near Ashe’s home. Had she gone there looking for work, perhaps at night… and…

  Hebe gasped. Strangled! Oh, what a horrid way to die. A distressing vision of Marigold, so full of life swam before her eyes. She jumped up and fumbled in the drawer to take out a fresh handkerchief. Hebe was blowing her nose when her mother hurried in.

  “My dear girl! I heard you cry out. What has happened to upset you?”

  “A friend has died, Mama. Sally has written of it.”

  “Oh, how very sad. I am sorry. Was she a servant at the inn?”

  Hebe shook her head and muffled her reply with her handkerchief.

  “She was ill?”

  “She was murdered. They don’t know who did it.”

  “Good heavens! London is such a dangerous place. I’m glad you’re safe here, Hebe.”

  Hebe gave a trembling sigh. “Yes, Mama.”

  After the door closed on her mother, Hebe lay with her head on the pillow. Surely, the awful news must have reached Lewis. He might have written to her, but of course, he couldn’t because he didn’t know where she was.

  A horrifying tho
ught crept unwelcome into her mind. If she hadn’t taken Marigold’s place posing for Lewis, would Marigold still be alive? She turned her face to the pillow.

  ~~~

  By the end of the week, Lewis and his tenant farmer, Joe Brown, were enjoying an ale at his farm house, congratulating themselves on their handiwork as the trench filled with water from the stream. That afternoon, Dunstan arrived and began to sort through Lewis’ clothes in his dressing room while still managing to convey a measure of hurt.

  “I feel I must point out, milord, your clothes require a good deal of attention, and you are not turned out as well as you might be.”

  “I quite agree, Dunstan. I am inordinately pleased you’re here to attend to them.”

  Much mollified, Dunstan gathered up a pile of shirts and tut-tutting, left the room.

  On Saturday evening, Lewis had dutifully attended the assembly in Bath, and danced with several young ladies, including Miss Amy Banbridge, much to her mother’s delight. He was promptly invited to dinner. As he could see the way the wind was blowing, he politely refused saying events had conspired to take him away for a few days.

  He would drive down to Brighton. Perhaps he’d find Hebe at a social event in the town, and a means of alerting her to the possibility that Crabbe was dangerous could present itself. Especially if she meant to return to London soon.

  Seth was the obvious suspect in Marigold’s murder, but it seemed passing strange for a brother to kill his sister in that manner. Seth might have hit her; he obviously had a foul temper, but strangle her? A cold-blooded way to kill. It spoke of a ruthless blood lust. And why would he when Marigold was Seth’s meal ticket? Even so, Hebe must be warned. Especially as she’d made her dislike of Seth plain to him. If he was the revengeful, murderous sort capable of such senseless violence, she could be in danger.