Love, Lies and Murder

by Catherine Winchester

  “He misses her. I can’t blame him for disliking me if he thinks I am trying to take her place,” Helen said. “Perhaps if you told me a little about her, it might help me connect with Joe.”

  “What would you like to know?” His voice was guarded.

  “What was her name?”

  “Emma.”

  “And what was she like?”

  “She was… she was an excellent mother.”

  Helen felt this was a rather arduous line of questioning, but she persevered. “And what did she enjoy doing? Did she have any hobbies? What books did she like? What was her personality like?

  “She didn’t read much,” he answered. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some business matters to attend to.” He strode off down the hall, the tension radiating from him.

  Helen watched him go, wondering what it was about his late wife that induced such strong emotions in him. If he loved her, wouldn’t he want to talk about her? Unless perhaps, he felt that he was betraying her by remarrying.

  She could do nothing about that now however, so instead she decided to go and find Mrs Watson and see about having Bessie reassigned.

  ***

  Mrs Watson had been very disapproving over her choice for a lady’s maid but Helen stood firm. She liked Bessie and felt that the girl deserved the chance to improve herself.

  With that over however, she felt her spirits drop. She wasn’t cut out to be a Duchess and further, she was married to a man who was in love with someone else. She had hoped that in time, affection might grow between them but as long as the spectre of his dead wife cast a shadow over their relationship, that seemed unlikely.

  She knew that she should probably explore the house a little but she didn’t want to encounter Pearl again, which she was sure would only do further harm to her mood, so she returned to her bedroom and sat on the window seat, looking out over the gardens.

  Although it was only the beginning of October, autumn was taking a hold with a vengeance and already the trees were starting to turn shades of gold and red. The weather seemed in sympathy with her bleak mood, with a steel grey sky and a lingering mist, which shrouded the land with its cool, damp tendrils.

  She hoped that the weather improved before Sunday.

  There came a knock at the door and when she called for them to enter, Bessie and Forbes were there. Forbes wanted to show Bessie the closet so Helen left them to it, not wanting to stifle their conversation.

  She decided to try and find the library that Alex had told her about and she encountered Rose on the stairs.

  “You couldn’t tell me where the library is, could you?” Helen asked.

  Before she answered, Rose looked around her, as if checking to see whether they could be overheard. “I’ll take you there,” she offered.

  “Thank you.”

  They walked in silence until they reached the library and Helen could see immediately why Alex loved this room, although it did little to lift her spirits.

  “Are you all right?” Rose asked softly as Helen browsed the shelves. Now was as good a time as any to see if they had some of John Keats poems.

  “I’m fine, just having a little difficulty adjusting to my new home.”

  Rose nodded, her expression understanding. “Did you meet the boys?”

  “Briefly,” she answered. “Jules is very sweet but Joe still seems quite affected by his mother’s death.”

  “He took it hard,” Rose confirmed.

  Helen glanced at Rose, who was also browsing the books, and wondered if Rose might be more forthcoming about Emma than her brother had been.

  “She must have been a very special woman.”

  “You mean Emma?” Rose sounded surprised.

  “Yes. For Joseph to still be so affected by the loss, and Alex hardly says a word about her. He must have loved her very much.”

  Rose frowned but didn’t answer.

  “I just think that if I knew Emma a little better, I might have some ideas of how to best help Joe.”

  “She was a good mother,” Rose confirmed, “but anything more isn’t my place to say.”

  Helen realised that she wasn’t going to get the answers she sought, so she tried a different tactic. “How did she die?”

  “She took a fall,” Rose said, which Helen already knew.

  “While out riding?”

  Rose looked at Helen and shook her head.

  “Please,” she begged. “I feel as if I am living in her shadow. If I could only understand why everyone finds it so difficult to speak about her, maybe…” Helen didn’t know how to finish that sentence and her words tailed off.

  “She fell down the stairs,” Rose finally answered. “Her room was in the south wing, because she liked to get the sunshine for as long as possible. She fell down the servants’ stairs there.”

  “What was she doing on the servants’ stairs?” Helen asked, for she had never known a lady or a gentleman to use the servants’ stairs.

  “No one knows, nor why she was wandering around in the middle of the night.”

  “The middle of the night?”

  Rose nodded. “She was found first thing but she was already cold. Her neck was broken.”

  That all sounded very odd to Helen but before she could ask more, the clock on the mantle chimed the hour.

  “Oh, I have to meet Mother. I’ll see you at lunch.” Rose scurried off without even waiting for an answer, leaving Helen alone to ponder the mystery of the wandering wife, who fell down the servants’ stairs in the middle of the night.

  Chapter Five

  Given his earlier brush off, Helen had wondered if Alex still meant to take her riding that afternoon, but her question was answered when he arrived at the lunch table wearing breeches.

  His mother was as disagreeable as the night before but everyone else seemed more relaxed. Again though, Helen preferred to observe rather than participate in conversation. When they were finished, Alex told Helen to meet him in the stables when she had changed.

  She returned to her room to put on her new riding habit, and was surprised to realise that some of her possessions had been moved. She could understand Forbes and Bessie looking through her dressing room drawers, but why was the drawer of her bedside table slightly ajar? And the book of Keats poetry that she had left here before lunch had been moved slightly.

  Still, she dismissed her misgivings because Bessie was new and still learning, although she was surprised at Forbes letting her look through personal property. Or maybe her room had been cleaned over lunch? That was unlikely though, and no maid should ever go through her personal possessions but Alex was waiting, so she pushed those thoughts aside and changed as quickly as she could.

  The stables were a two storied, square structure, located some distance from the house. A grand archway with the family crest over the top, led to a central courtyard, which must have had twenty or more stables lining the yard.

  Alex was waiting for her, holding two horses, one black and one bay. Alex led them over as he spotted her and she could see that the side saddle was on the bay horse, so she knew that he was for her.

  “This is Pecan,” he said, handing Helen the reins. “He’s as easy going a horse as you’re likely to find and perfect if you’re feeling a little unsure.”

  “And who is that?” Helen nodded to the black horse.

  “Black Knight,” he answered. “He’s a lovely beast but not for the faint hearted. You’re welcome to ride him once you have regained your confidence, however.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was being perfectly civil and polite but he was also detached, as if trying to keep his distance from her.

  “There’s a mounting block over there,” he pointed to a set of wooden stairs by the archway.

  Helen had been hoping that he would offer her a leg-up, for their brief touches had become almost addictive to her and she longed to get close enough to smell his scent again, but she knew that way lay madness. It was pointless to develop feeling
s for a man who loved another.

  She led Pecan over to the mounting block and settled herself in the saddle, tightening the girth and adjusting the stirrup as necessary, then Alex led her out of the stable block and along one of the bridle paths.

  They mostly rode in silence, except for when Alex pointed something out to her. After his earlier dismissal of her, she felt uncomfortable round him and was unwilling to risk raising his ire any further by asking too many questions. Instead she rode quietly behind or beside him and listened to what he told her.

  “So, how do you like your new home?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

  “It’s beautiful,” she answered, glancing back towards the imposing house. With the mist that hung in the air, she couldn’t make out the details from this distance but the dark clouds and swirls of light fog, only served to make it seem even more imposing, not less so.

  “It is,” he agreed, “but I asked how you liked it.”

  Helen took her time composing her answer. “The house is lovely and mostly, I like it very much.”

  “What don’t you like?”

  “Nothing specifically.”

  “Then why do you hesitate over your answer?”

  “I… I feel… You will think me silly.”

  “I won’t,” he tried to assure her. “Tell me.”

  “Well… Sometimes I feel as if the house resides permanently under a dark cloud and even if the sun should burn through the clouds and mist, the house itself would remain in shadow, as if the dark clouds remained.”

  When he didn’t reply for a few moments, Helen thought that she had offended him.

  “I'm sorry, Alex, that was a tactless thing to say.”

  Alex turned to look at her, his gaze boring into hers. He licked his lips, a surprisingly odd gesture on one who was usually so self-assured.

  “Sometimes, I feel the same way,” he admitted. Then he turned his head forward and urged Knight into a faster walk.

  Helen wanted to know what he meant by that, but she knew enough to understand that the conversation was over, and they rode on in silence once more.

  When they reached the edge of the property, by the ocean, Alex rode at the edge of the cliff and paused to look out but Helen kept her distance, unwilling to go too close to the edge. She wasn’t afraid of many things but heights was one of the few, so instead of trying to look down to the small beach at the bottom of the cliff, she looked out to the ocean.

  She hadn’t seen the ocean often, just two holidays by the coast when she was a child, but it had never looked like this before, churning and foaming with raw power. As the waves crashed onto the rocks at the base of the cliff, she felt as if the spray almost reached them, dampening her clothes even more than the light mist had already.

  “You won’t fall, it’s quite safe,” Alex assured her.

  “It’s even safer back here,” she replied. She didn’t care how safe it was, in her opinion, only a fool or someone with a death wish would venture as close to the edge as Alex was.

  He didn’t press the issue but simply stayed where he was, staring down at the beach and seeming as troubled as the ocean. Finally he turned Knight away from the edge and they headed to the south of the estate.

  The atmosphere between them was troubling Helen and she decided to try and initiate conversation with him, to see if she could ease some of the tension.

  “You said that you owned a shipping business?” she asked, the ocean having reminded her. She thought that business was probably a safe topic of conversation.

  “I do.”

  “Do you transport goods or people?”

  “Goods,” he explained. “Mostly cotton, some tobacco and other things, mostly from the Americas.”

  “What ships do you have?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Clippers, why?”

  Helen shrugged. “I suppose my interest is because I’ve read about a lot of different ships, but have hardly seen any.”

  “Do I take it you enjoy reading?”

  “I do. I belonged to a subscription library in London so that I could read without wasting too much money.” She noticed that he had once again changed the subject away from himself but she didn’t question it. This was far preferable to his storming off and besides, at least they were communicating. “I’m guessing that since the library is your favourite room, you must enjoy it too.”

  “Perhaps not to the same degree as you but yes.”

  “Do you prefer novels or factual books?”

  “Novels on the whole but there’s no denying the use of reference books, or the interest of a biography. What about you?”

  “Novels,” she said without hesitation. “They allow you to walk into another life and experience things you might never get a chance to.”

  “Such as?” he asked, seemingly interested in her reply.

  “Ann Radcliffe,” she supplied. “Her descriptions are so vivid and of places I will likely never visit. I think A Sicilian Romance is my favourite; the picture she paints of the Sicilian landscape, not to mention the grand castles and their labyrinths of passageways, is all so evocative.”

  “She writes supernatural stories, no?”

  “Well there are elements of the supernatural but they always have logical explanations. It’s the tense prose that I like, she captures your imagination and makes you feel what her characters feel; fear, terror, excitement. I only wish that she had written more.”

  “And what of Frances Burney? She is a popular choice for young ladies, is she not?”

  “Oh, I also enjoy her books very much. Do you have a favourite author?” she asked.

  “It’s been a long while since I had the time to read very much, I'm sure my memory would be faulty by now.”

  They continued discussing literature and moved onto poetry and by the time they arrived back at the stables, they were on good terms again. Helen didn’t intend to do anything to jeopardise that although at the same time, she still wanted to know why his wife’s death hung over this family like a great black cloud.

  “I have to go to Liverpool on Monday,” Alex said as they headed into the house. “I wondered if you would give me the picture you have of your mother, so that I can have it put into a new locket for you.”

  “Honestly, there really is no need-”

  “We have already discussed this, have we not?”

  “Yes,” she smiled. “I’ll get the picture for you now.”

  They headed to her room and Helen retrieved her bible from the dresser, then she went to one of the drawers and retrieved a magnifying glass. She opened the bible and withdrew a small silk pouch from it, tipping the contents, which appeared to be an oval disk, not much taller than an inch, into her hand. She carefully turned the disk over and on the other side, was the smallest painting that Alex had ever seen. She handed him the magnifying glass.

  “Father had it painted when they found out that she was with child. After her death he also had two larger miniatures painted using this, but I don’t know what happened to them.”

  Rather than taking the picture, Alex gently took hold of her hand and angled it so that he could see the image better. Even such a small touch brought back the same pleasing feelings that she had felt every time he touched her, and she bit her lower lip to stop herself from showing how much she was affected by his touch.

  “She’s very different in colouring,” he noted, for the woman in the picture had light blonde hair. “You have the same eyes though.” He had a small smile playing at the corner of his lips as he studied the painting, which made Helen’s knees feel like jelly.

  Finally he seemed to be done with his scrutiny and from his position bowed over her hand, he looked up into her eyes, bestowing a wider smile on her.

  “She was very pretty.”

  Helen couldn’t return his smile, for the feelings that were coursing through her veins were too powerful for that. She felt as if her blood was on fire and the desire to close the gap betwee
n them and kiss him was almost overwhelming.

  But he was in love with a dead woman, and no good could come of this.

  “Thank you,” she managed to whisper. For a moment she glimpsed the feral look in his eyes again and he leaned forward very slightly. She wondered if perhaps he wanted to kiss her, but there came a knock at the door before she could discover if she was right.

  He dropped her hand and she stepped away, while she called for them to come in. Helen placed the miniature back in the silk pouch and handed it to Alex as Bessie entered.

  “I’ll make sure it stays safe,” he assured her, then to her surprise, he put a hand behind her head and kissed her forehead.

  Her father had kissed her like that a few times but it had never made her feel like this, which was as if she had been struck dumb and was unable to form a coherent thought.

  “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, smiling as he stepped away.

  Bessie was by the door, turned away from their display. “Sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said once Alex had closed the door behind himself.

  “Oh, no, it’s fine.” She smoothed her skirt as if that would somehow clear her muddled thoughts. “Did you want something?”

  “Just to see if you wanted me to style your hair for dinner. I’ve been practicing on my days off, so I'm getting quite good.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Being poked and prodded was the last thing she felt like, but what was the point in having a lady’s maid if you didn’t let them do their job? She headed through to the dressing room and sat at the dressing table by the window. Bessie lit two oil lamps, since the dark clouds were cutting out much of the natural light, then began unbraiding her hair and brushing it out.

  “I say, Bessie, you didn’t go through the drawers in my bedroom earlier did you? Perhaps while Forbes was showing you around?”

  “No Ma’am! She showed me where everything goes in here but we never go through personal possessions. Well, unless you mean clothes and the like.”

  “All right.” She smiled at Bessie in the mirror because the girl looked so worried.