by Amy Corwin
“Please, Miss Leigh, don't try to get up.” Helen rushed back to the bed. She smoothed the covers over her and plumped the pillows, despite the frown crumpling Miss Leigh's plain features.
“Tired ….” Miss Leigh’s eyes remained closed as if she did not have the energy to keep them open.
Helen pressed her hand against her thin shoulder. “You must rest. I am going to fetch your breakfast.”
She waited for the inevitable protest, straightening her arm in anticipation of gently pushing Miss Leigh back into bed. But her employer did not protest. Her only response was a long, exhausted snore.
“Sleep,” Helen whispered. “I will return soon.”
Unsure how long Miss Leigh would cooperate by staying abed, Helen hurried out. She was pleased to find that Hugh had thoughtfully left orders that the mistress of the house was not to be disturbed. There was even a large pot of thick porridge in the kitchen.
“Mr. Caswell ordered porridge?” Helen asked, watching the cook give the pot a thorough stir.
“Yes, Miss Caswell,” the cook agreed with a chuckle. “'Though he didn't seem inclined to have a bowl. A rasher of bacon and half a dozen eggs was all he required.”
Helen smothered a laugh. A large man obviously required a large breakfast. “May I have a tray for Miss Leigh? She is not at all well.” She collected a heavy, white china pot of sugar and a small pitcher of cream. When she spied a bowl of hot-house strawberries, she added a few of those as well. Perhaps they would tempt Miss Leigh to rouse herself enough to eat.
“The hot water’s there, Miss,” the cook said, watching her assemble her tray. A disbelieving smile pursed her lips. “You going to make the tea?” she asked as Helen pared off a few flakes from the compressed block of tea. “She likes it strong and sweet.”
Helen nodded, well aware that she was due for a scolding if she erred. Nonetheless, making tea was one of the few things she did well, and if Miss Leigh liked it strong, then strong it would be.
Examining the tray, Helen darted through the kitchen door to the herb garden just outside. She swiftly plucked blue-gray sage, a spring of deep green rosemary and a single deep-red bloom from the Apothecary's rose. A delicate bone china bud vase stood on the stone sill of the kitchen window, just to the right of the door. She grabbed that as well and filled it with water before arranging the fragrant sprigs as a final, healing touch. It looked fresh and lively, but she could not quite convince herself that Miss Leigh would be pleased — or even notice the vase.
Her dismal reflection proved accurate. Miss Leigh ate her breakfast without comment. However, when she finally placed her empty tea cup on the tray, she picked up the vase and sniffed at the rose, although she did not say a word.
Miss Leigh held the tray up. When Helen took it, Miss Leigh turned on her side and pulled the covers up over her shoulder. Helen watched her, her concern growing. She had never known Miss Leigh to be so agreeably silent.
It was a frightening change.
Intent on watching over her, Helen finished mending the lace she’d washed, ironed it, and straightened Miss Leigh's room. By mid-afternoon, she had run out of chores. Miss Leigh continued to sleep, sporadic snores issuing from the depths of her bed. Helen almost nodded off in boredom before she suddenly stood up, deciding to clean out the wardrobe.
While conscious, Miss Leigh had resisted — even resented — any attempt on Helen's part to sort through the musty repository. Helen was determined to get rid of the worst garments and air out the wardrobe to eliminate the staleness. The smell was probably due to mould growing on some damp item, and it needed to be cleaned.
Removing stack upon stack of clothing, Helen reached the bottom shelf when a further burst of musty odor made her sneeze. She had found the source. A wrinkled pile of material was stuffed into the back corner. She reached inside and gingerly used her thumb and forefinger to pull out a dark blue garment. The material was rough and crumpled into a stiff ball.
Another whiff of the thick, musty odor made her sneeze again. Her eyes watered. She threw the offending wad onto the floor and picked up a rag and a small jar of lavender oil, beeswax and turpentine. Scooping out a small amount of the wax with the tip of her rag, she rubbed down the inside of the wardrobe until the musty scent vanished.
Sitting back on her heels, she wiped a few droplets of sweat from her brow and sniffed. The scent of lavender-laced turpentine was not much of an improvement. However, after flapping the wardrobe doors for a few minutes, the scent dissipated enough for it to smell almost pleasant.
One by one, she picked up the stacks of clothes and refolded them neatly, returning them to their shelves. When she finished, she eyed the dark blue ball with disfavor.
Miss Leigh turned over in bed, letting out a long sigh. Helen held her breath and watched, but she did not stir again. Wishing she did not have to touch the crumpled fabric, Helen picked up the wadded clothing and left. If she could salvage anything by washing it, she would do her best.
In the workroom next to the kitchen, Helen shook out the mess over the table. To her surprise, a gray, knitted cap fell from the folds of the garment, which turned out to be a rough jacket of the sort a farmer might wear.
Why would Miss Leigh have such a disreputable jacket stuffed into her wardrobe?
Miss Leigh wore outlandish clothing, but she tended towards the excessively feminine type, absolutely drenched in ribbons and lace.
Holding it up, Helen eyed the long sleeves. Even if for some reason Miss Leigh wanted to wear it, it simply would not fit her. The shoulders would droop and the sleeves would cover her hands completely. It was clearly a man’s jacket.
She sighed. A real lady's maid would never question, she would just accept. So Helen mixed a small amount of bullock’s gall, a cup of stale urine and some boiling water and picked up a hard brush to try to remove the stains. After doing the best she could, she dipped the coat into a bucket of icy spring water. It was not up to her to question Miss Leigh's choice of clothing, even if Helen did wish she could offer a few words of advice. Miss Leigh would never be a beauty, but she could be quite pleasant in appearance if she would give up some of her laces, ribbons and dreadful colors.
And this absolutely horrible jacket.
Whispering a few well-chosen insults to the jacket, Helen squeezed out the water and spread the garment out on the table in front of her. When it was almost dry, she worked a drop of oil of olives into a brush that she then rubbed over the jacket. It did not look much better.
Perhaps ironing might improve its appearance. It certainly could not make it worse. She nearly jumped out of her dress when a heavy, warm hand grasped her shoulder.
“Helen?” Hugh's deep voice startled her.
Heart beating wildly, Helen glanced over her shoulder. The table trembled against her waist in reaction to her abrupt movement. “What are you doing here?”
“Cook said you were here with some washing.” His blue eyes twinkled. “I could not believe it, so I came to find out for myself.”
“I am perfectly capable of washing a jacket!” A heated flush blossomed over her cheeks. Her damp hand reached out and pressed against his chest to push him away. When she realized it, her blush deepened. She tried to pull her hand away, only to have him catch it under his warm fingers.
He pressed her palm against his chest as his gaze intensified. Her breathing grew shallow as she gazed up, taking in his tanned skin and the faint white lines around his eyes. He seemed the epitome of a Norseman come to ravage the English countryside, although the deep humor sparkling in his eyes was sure to grant him everything he desired without force.
Her heart fluttered as he glanced briefly at her lips. “I see you are,” he said.
She looked down at the jacket lying stretched out on the table. “It was full of mould. The pernicious air would make Miss Leigh ill if it remained in her wardrobe.”
He looked at the table. The smile curving his mouth disappeared. He reached out and snatched the jacke
t off the table. He held it up. “Where did you get this?”
“From Miss Leigh's wardrobe. As I said.”
“My God,” he muttered. “It can't be.”
“Can't be what?” She tried to wrest the jacket from his grip. “What is wrong with you? Give it to me, please. You are wrinkling it.”
He studied Helen, his face expressionless. Something in his demeanor shifted from teasing lightness to tension. She wiped her icy hands on her apron. The room suddenly felt airless and much too small.
In slow, deliberate movements, he folded the jacket as if he meant to take it away with him. Thinking of Miss Leigh's anger if she discovered that Helen had not only taken the jacket, but lost it to Hugh, Helen caught hold of the jacket’s hem.
His grip tightened. He moved slightly, angling his body towards the door, blocking her with his broad shoulder. She edged around him and tried to grab it again. He pushed her away.
“What are you doing? I must return it to Miss Leigh at once!” she said.
“You cannot. It's important, Helen, otherwise I would not take it.”
“But you can't — and you mustn't fold it up while it is damp or it will grow musty again.” She placed a hand on his forearm. “Please just let me iron it and put it back where it belongs.”
“No. And you must tell me precisely how you found this.”
“It was crumpled, along with a knitted cap, in the corner of Miss Leigh's wardrobe. There is not much else to say about it.” The words had barely escaped her lips when he caught up the cap with one long finger. “What are you doing?” She tried unsuccessfully to obtain control of at least the cap but again, he held it frustratingly out of reach.
Miss Leigh would punish her and perhaps turn her off when she learned what had happened. And Helen would have to admit who she was. All her efforts would come to naught. Her family would berate her for her carelessness. She would have to live with the pitying glances and shame of losing a valuable heirloom, not to mention having masqueraded as a lady’s maid.
“Mr. Gaunt is investigating my …. He’s assisting me with an investigation into the death of Mr. Lionel Castle.” He held up the jacket and cap. “Someone wearing clothing precisely like this was seen.”
“Seen? Where?”
He hesitated, reluctance written on his face. He did not trust her enough to confide in her. The thought burned.
Nonetheless, she could not help a brief, light touch on his strong forearm.
“Seen in the boatyard before Lionel — Mr. Castle — took his boat out,” he said at last.
“I don't understand. Surely, you are not suggesting someone tampered with the earl's boat?”
He gripped her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. She could feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin material of her dreary gown. Self-conscious, she brushed a limp strand of hair back from her forehead, aware of her unflattering hairstyle and clothing. There was not even a bit of embroidery to distract him from her plain face.
And yet he did not turn away. He pulled her closer. She held her breath when he bent and pressed his warm lips against hers. She leaned closer, suddenly wishing she truly was a lady's maid. A maid could laugh and flirt and even marry a working man like Hugh without crossing the invisible boundary between the classes.
How she hated that boundary which divided her from happiness.
When he gently released her, she stepped back. Her hands rose to rub her arms, chilled for no reason.
“I apologize.” He glanced round ruefully. “We might have presented a rather unusual picture if anyone had caught us. Considering you are my sister.”
She laughed because he seemed to expect it. “This is a terrible situation.”
“Damnable,” he agreed. His gaze dropped again to the garments in his hand. His face grew somber. “Was there anything else? Anything you thought was unusual?”
“Unusual? In what way?”
Some might consider everything about Miss Leigh unusual. Helen just thought she was sad and unhappy with her life at Ormsby.
“Anything you would not expect. Like this jacket.”
“You don't — you don't think Miss Leigh would deliberately hurt the earl, do you? I cannot believe that.” This time, Hugh's concentration made him inattentive. She took advantage of this and snatched the cap away.
Stretching the cap open, she peered inside, searching for anything to exonerate Miss Leigh. In her heart, she could not believe Miss Leigh would do anything to hurt the earl or his brother. Certainly her employer had a temper, but she did not seem the type to cold-bloodedly kill her nephews, even if she apparently did not like the eldest one, the Earl of Monnow.
Her fingers picked through the coarse, gray folds, turning the cap to catch the afternoon sunshine streaming in through the single window set high in the wall. A brief, golden glint flashed, just under the curled lip of the hat. She carefully unfurled the edge to find a single, pale gold hair.
She plucked it out and held it triumphantly in front of Hugh's face.
“You see? A blonde hair! Miss Leigh has brown hair.”
“Brown and gray,” He delicately grasped the hair between the broad tips of his fingers. “This could easily be gray.”
“It's blonde,” she insisted, although as he held it up in the sunlight, she was not so sure.
“It could be,” he said at last, placing the hair in his handkerchief and folding it carefully before putting it in his pocket. “Or, it could be gray. I will examine it to be sure. Do not concern yourself overmuch. I would not accuse anyone without more proof than a single hair of an indeterminate shade.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“An upright and trustworthy Steward will discharge his duty with zeal and impartiality ….” —The Complete Servant
Hugh watched Helen leave the small workroom. He had to admire her defense of his aunt, even after Eloise had hit her.
While Helen might be kind enough to forget and forgive, Hugh could not help wondering about the extent of his aunt's dislike of him. Perhaps it was deeper than he had imagined. His decision to remove her from Ormsby and the close proximity to Lionel might have been too much for her to bear.
Nonetheless, he had to remain impartial. The evidence collected so far was simply too inconclusive.
And he did not want to believe it.
Hugh headed back to his office and was relieved to see that Mr. Gaunt was still there, making notes in a brown, leather-bound notebook. Throwing the jacket and cap onto the desk, Hugh took possession of the only other chair in the small room.
Gaunt picked up the garments and examined them briefly. After less than a minute, he threw them both back onto the desk and sniffed his fingers with an expression of distaste. He pulled out a large white handkerchief and rubbed his fingertips.
“Mould,” he said, before meticulously folding up the square of linen and placing it back into his pocket. “Where did you find the jacket?”
Hugh sighed and ran his fingers through his beard. The bristly hair itched like an inconvenient conscience. He felt as if he were about to betray his aunt.
“Helen — Miss Archer — found it in my aunt's closet. It was balled up with the cap in the corner.”
“I see.” Gaunt picked up the cap. He studied it at length before throwing it back on the table. “Did she find anything else?”
“This.” He unfolded his handkerchief and laid it carefully over Gaunt's palm. “It was caught in the rim of the cap.”
Gaunt picked up the hair and held it in the light. It glinted pale gold in the sunshine. “Pale blonde or gray — difficult to say.”
“It could belong to my aunt.”
“Or a man,” Gaunt suggested. “It is about six inches long, a length more suited to a man.”
“It was caught in the rim. My aunt's hair is cut into a short fringe over her forehead.”
“So it is.” Gaunt sat back and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. He tapped his front teeth briefly with the tips of his
index fingers, before he lowered and fisted his hands on the desk. His movements seemed designed to give the impression of thoughtful deliberation. “Are you of the opinion that your aunt decided to murder you and your brother?”
He shook his head. “Not Lionel. Never Lionel. The sun rose and set with him in her eyes.”
“And what about you?”
“She did not like me. And yet I cannot believe she would do me any serious harm — other than a tongue lashing or two, that is.”
“Had you done anything recently to anger her?”
Hugh laughed ruefully and rubbed his neck where his beard scratched like a handful of spiders. “I asked her to leave Ormsby and move into a nearby cottage, Dower House, to be precise. I was hoping to marry and thought her presence in the house would cause strife.”
“I see. And if you were … gone, she would be able to stay?”
“Perhaps,” Hugh matched Gaunt's careful tone. “However, she would never have harmed Lionel. Trust me.”
“Did you not indicate that no-one knew Lionel had accompanied you?”
Hugh had hoped Gaunt had forgotten. “Yes. It was a last minute arrangement.”
“Then I must speak to the vicar before we come to any conclusions,” Gaunt said, giving Hugh a small reprieve. “I'm curious about the reason your aunt was not enthusiastic about Mr. Castle visiting the vicar. And there are a few other avenues left to pursue. If you can arrange it, I have some questions I would like to put to your aunt.”
“Unfortunately, she is unwell and has remained in bed.”
Gaunt's brows rose. “Hiding?”
“Not her, no. And I have never known her to languish in bed. She is most certainly ill.”
“Fear or conscience?”
“Heart. I can only hope it does not prove fatal.”
“I'm sorry.” Despite his words, Gaunt’s face wore a hard, implacable expression. “However, questions remain, especially in view of these garments.”
Hugh grunted and stood up. “I appreciate your thoroughness. I suppose it is what I am paying you for.”
“Do not come to any conclusions, yet.” Gaunt stood as well, collecting the garments. “I'm certain we do not have the entire story. Despite your aunt's apparent motive, she may still be innocent.”
