Debt of Honor

by Ann Clement

  “Oh, Percy.” A sob escaped her. “How glad I am my dear Letitia was not the one to sprain her ankle on this loose tile. See what happened to me?” Her chin began to shake.

  In a few strides, he was by her side, Letitia next to him, still holding his hand.

  “Can you stand up?” Percy asked, concerned despite his anger.

  “I…I don’t know.” Ethel sniffed. “My ankle hurts badly.”

  “Let me help you,” he said, reluctantly letting go of Letitia’s hand. The warmth of her palm was suddenly replaced by the coolness of the wind coming through the open doors. An unexpected feeling of being deprived of something special only increased his irritation with Ethel. “Take my hand.”

  She did more than that. Straightening herself to a kneeling position, she clutched his forearm with both hands, pulling so hard he was forced to bend down. They both were positioned so awkwardly that he would not be able to help her up unless he literally took her in his arms.

  “Slater”—he raised his voice over the rain pelting the roof, eyeing with another pang of irritation her shredded gloves caked with stone dust and what appeared to be blood—“please take Lady Marsden’s arm and help me pull her up without further damage to her foot.”

  Slater was closing the French doors and didn’t hear him, or pretended not to.

  “I’ll help,” Letitia offered, and smiled reassuringly when he looked at her, a little surprised. She was already by Ethel’s side. “Put your arm around my neck,” she instructed Ethel, wrapping hers around Ethel’s waist.

  They pulled her up together. With Ethel’s death grip on his sleeve and another on Letitia’s neck, it was impossible to tell which one of her ankles hurt. As if deciding this for herself, Ethel shifted her weight a few times before collapsing into sobs against his chest, her arms winding now around his neck. Letitia, he noticed, was clearly taken aback by this effusion of emotions.

  “You should sit down, Ethel,” he said. “Which ankle did you hurt? Can you walk to the bench?”

  “I hope I can,” she sniffed, “with your help.”

  Percy stiffened when Ethel removed her arms from his neck, only to wind them around his middle, her head firmly on his chest. He had no choice but to put his arm around her for support.

  He half dragged her toward the nearest stone bench between two French doors that were being blasted with sheets of water on the other side. Another lightning bolt zigzagged across the horizon, accompanied by a deafening clap of thunder.

  He straightened with relief when at last Ethel detached herself from his coat.

  “Would you mind finding Josepha?” Letitia asked from behind his back.

  He turned to face her. Oddly, the sight of her still-messy hair felt like a balm soothing his nerves after Ethel’s tragic performance.

  “Josie makes excellent ointments, you know,” she continued.

  He wanted to touch those tousled strands.

  “I’m sure she’ll have something for Ethel’s hands. I’ll stay here.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured. He really wished Ethel out of his house, but another bolt of lightning madly crisscrossing the sky seemed to laugh at that wish. Finding his wife’s companion was probably the best he could do at the moment. Percy turned on his heel.

  But his search ended before it began. Josepha was entering the orangery at that very moment, Petre behind her.

  From under the lashes dotted with tears, Ethel watched Percy turn for the door. She did not care a whit whether he was angry or not.

  She was furious. What if she’d missed something in that hole after all? She needed to come back—without the presence of the entire household. At the moment, the orangery was as busy as the marketplace in King’s Lynn. Slater was closing the last of the French doors with an air of solemnity, and that dark-skinned maid of Letitia’s had just come in from the corridor, together with Percy’s steward, of all people.

  “Ouch!” Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice that Letitia had sat next to her and was trying to uncurl her fingers. “Do be careful.”

  “What happened to your hands, Ethel?”

  “Ah, I…” The sprained ankle might explain why she was on the floor, but it would hardly account for the condition of her gloves. “My fingers became trapped in the hole under the tile when I fell. I thought I would never be able to remove them.” She pouted in pain.

  “Oh, Ethel, it had to be dreadful,” Letitia said with compassion, then looked up and unexpectedly smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here, Josie. Lady Marsden’s fingers became trapped under the tile when she fell. We will need one of your ointments, if you please.”

  Ethel turned sharply. Letitia’s dark-skinned maid or companion—Ethel was never sure who she really was—stood in front of them, watching her with those intense, almond-shaped eyes.

  “Let me fetch it at once,” the servant replied while her uncomfortably evaluating gaze lingered on Ethel’s face. “Are you able to walk to the morning room, my lady?” she addressed her directly. “It would help to have a table at our disposal.”

  “Are you capable of walking that far?” Letitia asked. “Josie and I can support you.”

  “I think so,” Ethel mumbled, trying to remember which foot she had hurt.

  She took the offered hands and began to stand up when her attention was suddenly diverted to the steward. He was now inspecting the location of her ordeal. She nearly leapt off the bench without any help when he bent down and effortlessly moved the tile aside.

  “I see the carpenter somehow found the abandoned heating duct,” he said to Percy, furrowing his brow. “The tile must have become loose. It might be prudent to uncover the entire length and fill it completely for better support.”

  “Excellent idea. I would not want Lady Letitia to sprain her ankle,” Percy muttered, his attention on the cavity. Then he bent over it, examining intently the inside.

  Ethel felt beads of sweat popping out on her forehead. Her knees shook so much, she would have sat down again, but four hands held her fast.

  “Good girl,” Letitia said reassuringly. “We will walk very slowly.”

  Ethel only nodded, her heart in her throat when Percy went down on one knee and reached into the dark opening.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sea of wheat undulating on a gentle summer breeze and combed by the shimmers of sunlight had always been a source of pleasure and pride for Percy when he rode through the fields. Today, he nearly failed to notice it.

  He passed the grove where yesterday Letitia, sitting on the tree trunk as in a chair, had been drawing in that sketchbook of hers. Once she noticed him, he had debated with himself whether, having acknowledged her presence from the distance, he should give in to the temptation and see what she was about, or continue on his way. In the end, temptation won. He did not regret it. The unexpected tête-à-tête had filled him with a sense of contentment, a measure of peace and rightness that had begun with the spontaneous icebreaking between them in the library.

  Now Percy spurred his horse by the grove. No one sat on the misshapen tree today, and he had an additional reason to go on. There was again the matter of Ethel, blast her eyes.

  Perhaps Letitia would embrace Ethel’s friendship the way Sarah had. He would not interfere with that. But if he’d read the signs correctly, she was as upset by Ethel’s invasion yesterday as he was. He had to finally curb Ethel’s insolence and make sure she stopped disregarding the privacy of his home. Whether his marriage was one of convenience or not, his wife took precedence. Ethel had to understand at last her own place, or lack thereof, at Bromsholme.

  Ethel sat on her favorite bench in Pythe Park’s flower garden, the Journal des Dames in her lap. She had come here hoping the cool, clear morning air would soothe her nerves and restore her spirits after a restless night. Instead, she absently stared at the same page while her thoughts spun ar
ound the events of the previous day.

  Yesterday, for a briefest moment, it seemed her quest had ended at last. Instead, she had only made a fool of herself. And then she nearly fainted when Percy reached into that uncovered space—to pick up the earring she hadn’t even noticed she had lost.

  At first, Petre’s revelation about the duct running under the entire row of tiles sent a wave of hammering palpitations through her already overtaxed heart. It could mean an entire row of possible hiding places someone else was bound to discover. But she had ruled out such possibility while tossing from side to side at night. Sarah hefting a floor tile nearly every day? Impossible. Ethel rubbed her cut, still-tender fingers. Her quest would have to go on.

  Percy’s new mercenary marriage had dashed her hopes and rattled her beyond measure. He had used Wycombe Oaks as an excuse to rake in Stanville’s fortune.

  A new surge of anger coiled inside her when she recalled how they came to the orangery, Letitia’s hand in Percy’s, contentment and satisfaction on their faces. They didn’t even have the decency to do something about their hair, nonchalantly advertising the fact that they had been making love somewhere outdoors. Surely, Letitia had lied when she told her there was nothing between them.

  Unexpectedly, a shadow darkened the page in her lap, interrupting her musings. Ethel lifted her head, a little alarmed that she had been caught without any warning. She hadn’t even heard him coming.

  “Well, well, what a surprise, Sir Percival.” She smiled sweetly, taking in his impassive expression. “You left your wife alone so early in the day? Will she forgive you?”

  “How is your ankle, Ethel? I trust it’s on the mend.”

  He’d ignored her question, though she was pleased to notice a faint scowl marring his features.

  “Oh, it is perfectly fine today. As you see, I walked here alone.” She straightened her right leg and turned her foot in small circles.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Will you give me a moment of your time? There’s something we need to talk about. I hope you will not mind my candor.”

  “Of course.” Ethel moved over to make room for him on the stone bench. “Won’t you sit down for a spell? I am all ears.”

  “I am sorry if this will cause you any uneasiness,” Percy began. “I know how deep your feelings for Sarah ran and how hard it is to let go of someone we loved. I tried to honor your grief, Ethel, by turning a blind eye on your attempts to step into Sarah’s shoes. However, Bromsholme has a new mistress. It may be hard for you to let go of old habits, yet you cannot fail to notice how disrespectful that would be to my wife. I shall thank you for not defying Slater’s or anyone else’s instructions in the future.”

  His words stunned her so much that Ethel did not even need to pretend shock. She was truly speechless for a few moments.

  “You wound me,” she said at last. “You wound me terribly, Percy. How can you say something like this to me, your lifelong friend and Sarah’s closest friend ever? Have I ever given you any reason to mistrust me? Have I not done everything to help you after Sarah’s death, when you were not even capable of putting your boots on right, much less giving orders to your staff? Have I not proven my devotion to you and Sarah by taking care of your household in those terrible days? If only you were more cooperative, you could have spared yourself more anguish. But now…I do not understand this at all.”

  “Ethel, I already thanked you many times for your devotion and eagerness. However, Letitia’s wishes take precedence. Defying them is not the kind of respect I believe you would want to show my wife.”

  “I would have never dreamed”—Ethel closed her eyes briefly to force out at least a couple of tears—“that you should see it so, Percy. I love Letitia and have every hope that she will be as close a friend as Sarah was. Such talent! You are a very fortunate man, Sir Percival Hanbury, and I do not wonder that you based your choice of a wife on her talents rather than…anything else. I so cherish her friendship. I beg your pardon again, but your butler did not make it clear that she did not wish any visitors in the orangery. I thought to have a last stroll through Sarah’s beloved garden before it was annihilated.” She’d chosen that last word on purpose and was rewarded with a little tic in his jaw muscle. “So many fond memories and so many hopes for the future, all in one place, and now obliterated for eternity.” She blinked rapidly and sighed.

  “Yes,” he said tightly. His downcast gaze landed on the open pages in her lap, and he sneered. “So many of both. I will never forget Sarah, you surely know that, but Bromsholme is not a shrine to her memory. It is my home, and it has a new mistress.”

  “I do beg your pardon.” Ethel squeezed out more tears. “Forgive my nostalgic wish to see the orangery for the last time. A day does not go by that I do not think of Sarah. How much I wish I could have prevented her death. If only I had known she was on the brink of…dying.”

  “If only I knew the same, she might be still among us,” Percy said through clenched teeth.

  It gave Ethel some satisfaction to see his tortured expression.

  He got up. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said hoarsely, his voice hollow. “You will oblige me greatly by showing Letitia the deference that is her due.”

  Then he bowed and walked away.

  And left her seething with anger.

  By the time she reached her room, Ethel was in an even worse mood than she had been before leaving it. How dare he!

  But pacing back and forth did nothing to relieve the tension in her chest. Percy made her feel like a wild animal shoved into a cage, its ability to pounce taken away.

  Ethel had no intention of letting his lecture go unpunished.

  With an angry flick of her arm, she sent the Journal flying to the table in her sitting room. It hit the tabletop with a thump and slid to the floor, opening again to the same page that had earned Percy’s scorn. No wonder. It showed the latest short hairstyles for ladies. Ethel squinted at them with disgust, for once agreeing with his opinion. Someone must have gathered a committee of former executioners servicing the guillotine during the Reign of Terror to design such nonsense.

  Then an idea struck her, and she grinned at the first cheerful thought of the morning.

  When Letitia came down to breakfast, Percy was, of course, already gone. He would no doubt return very late—if he returned at all. His having a mistress was really to her advantage, Letitia reminded herself, but the excellent arguments supporting that notion seemed rather bleak this morning, after all the time they had spent together yesterday.

  She had felt strangely unsettled since the moment Percy hoisted her up into his saddle, and the interminable afternoon with Ethel had only added to her restlessness. While she and Josie tended to the cuts on Ethel’s hands, Percy had slinked away with his steward, sending word through Slater that he’d be back too late for dinner. The door to his room finally had opened and closed around midnight.

  Meanwhile, Letitia had tossed and turned in her bed, fending off thoughts of him with Mrs. Vernon. The recollection of Percy’s touch, his laughter, their conversation was still so fresh and made her restless and tingling with…well, she wasn’t quite sure what to call that state of heightened expectation.

  She had never experienced anything like this with Sir Walter Hasting, not even when she first fell in love with him, head over heels. Later, it was more a matter of bracing herself against his not-very-thrilling advances.

  Yet, despite his constant absence, Percy seemed to care in odd ways.

  As soon as she sat down to breakfast, Slater presented her with a key. She looked up at him, surprised.

  “The key to the orangery door, my lady.” Slater appeared rather smug, as if the idea pleased him. “The lock was installed this morning.”

  “Thank you, Slater.” She took the key and turned it in her hand.

  “Sir Percival also left instructions that, should her ladyshi
p wish to sketch outdoors beyond a comfortable walking distance, there is a gig at her ladyship’s disposal anytime.”

  This was a pleasant surprise. “Thank you again,” she said, and then quickly asked before the butler retreated, “Was Lady Marsden a very good friend of the late Lady Hanbury?”

  Slater twitched as if she’d poked him in the ribs.

  “She was her constant companion. Hardly a day passed without Lady Marsden coming here or her ladyship going to Pythe Park when Lady Marsden was in the country.”

  “She must have felt like a family member at Bromsholme,” Letitia opined, hoping Slater would not be tongue-tied about their neighbor.

  Slater answered her hopes.

  He began by scowling. “After her ladyship died, Lady Marsden insisted on running this house, although there was no need for it.” He made a valiant, though not entirely successful, effort to erase the growing scowl.

  “Indeed?” Letitia put down her cup, realizing she had been holding it halfway between her mouth and the saucer. “What do you mean? I’m sure you and Mrs. Waters could manage very well without her.”

  Slater brightened momentarily at the praise, but then his scowl returned with full force.

  “Sir Percival was so deeply distraught by his wife’s death that Lady Marsden must have felt her help was needed. She was especially keen to take care of her ladyship’s rooms, but Sir Percival wouldn’t let anyone touch anything in there. Nonetheless, Lady Marsden came every day to inspect the house, until she left the country in the autumn of that year.”

  Inspect the house? No wonder Slater and Mrs. Waters felt offended; there could hardly be a worse way to imply Ethel’s distrust in their abilities.

  “I was wondering,” Letitia ventured, “about Lady Hanbury’s portrait. Was there one? I did not find it in any of the rooms.”

  “Sir Percival commissioned a full-length portrait of her ladyship soon after his marriage, but he sent it, together with the pictures her ladyship kept in her room, her books and other personal possessions, to her parents.”