A Regency Yuletide

by Sharon Sobel

  The cottage door opened as soon as Neville knocked, so he knew his approach had been seen. A gray-haired woman who wore a housekeeper’s simple black gown beneath a pristine apron motioned for him to enter.

  “I would like to speak with the coroner,” he said.

  “Mr. Grove receives in his book-room. If you will follow me . . .” Like the footman at Symmington Hall, she walked into the shadowed house without looking back to see if Neville obeyed.

  He wondered idly if the ton had become so properly trained that its servants no longer needed to check that a housekeeper’s or a footman’s request was followed. What irony! The Polite World considered itself the elite, but it had been brought to heel by the very people who served them.

  Neville shook the folderols from his head. Now was not the time to revel in the queer compromise that had evolved between the ton and their households. Answers had not been forthcoming from Eastbridge and Symmington, so mayhap Neville could obtain some from Grove, the coroner.

  The housekeeper had an inner door open by the time Neville reached it. Stepping aside, she motioned for him to go in.

  Neville took a single step into the room, then halted. No one had better been described as a book-room than this one. It was filled with books which had been stacked on every flat surface, including the two chairs facing the hearth. There might have been a table beneath other books, but he could not be sure.

  “You wanted to see me?” asked a pleasant voice from behind Neville.

  Turning, Neville had to look down to meet the eyes of a very short man. He was quite plump, but not obese. He had the appearance of a well-fed country squire, which was probably what he was because only men who owned land could be appointed as coroner. His most distinctive characteristic was a pair of bushy brows that looked as if two butterbur blossoms had been bleached and attached to his brow.

  “Are you the coroner?” Neville asked.

  “Yes. Jerold Grove. How may I help you . . .?”

  “Hathaway. Neville Hathaway,” he supplied as he shook the man’s hand. “I was hoping you might grant me a few minutes of your time.”

  “Of course. Sit down.” The coroner’s mouth tightened, then altered almost instantly into a smile. Going to one chair, he lifted off the pile of books and put them, with care, on top of another mound leaning against the wall. “Please sit down, Hathaway.”

  Neville did as the coroner cleared books off the other chair. When Grove sat as well, Neville said, “I assume you know the reason for my call.”

  “No, I don’t. Should I?”

  “I am a guest at Symmington Hall.”

  Grove frowned. “Sad business there. ‘Tis a right shame that Lady Eastbridge died just before Twelfth Night.”

  “Yes. I was hoping you might tell me your findings from your visit to Symmington Hall.”

  “Findings? There are none. I was not called to Symmington Hall.” His bushy brows lowered. “Why should I have been called there? I was told the lady died quite peacefully in her sleep. There is no crime in that.”

  Neville sought into his memory. Who had first told him that the coroner had been called? Pris! He knew she would have told him the truth. So someone else must have lied to her. Who had mentioned to her that the coroner would be called to Symmington Hall? The Symmingtons themselves! Pris had learned of the coroner’s impending visit when she tried to speak with them in the hours after the countess’s death.

  “Do you know something that I should?” asked the coroner.

  “At this point, I feel I know less than nothing.” Neville stood. “Thank you for receiving me, Mr. Grove. If you will excuse me, I shall endeavor to clear up some confusion at Symmington Hall.”

  “If you need my assistance, send for me.”

  Again he shook the coroner’s hand. “You may be most certain I will. Thank you.”

  Neville walked out of the book-room and to the cottage’s front door. Everywhere he turned, there were more questions. It was time to start getting some answers.

  WHERE WAS ISAAC?

  Priscilla had asked both her daughters, her aunt and Duncan, several of the servants and a few guests that same question. All of them had replied identically. They had no idea. Leah had revealed that she was supposed to meet her brother by the back garden door so they might explore some of the intricate gardens surrounding the house.

  “But it is snowing hard,” Leah had added, “and Daphne promised me to show me how she gets her hair into that twist.”

  “Which part of the garden were you going to investigate?” Priscilla asked, trying to hide her astonishment that her younger daughter might choose to sit in front of a glass and try a new hair style rather than sneaking out to frolic in the snow. It was another sign that Leah was maturing. To have two daughters eager to join the Polite World was a frightening thought.

  Leah shrugged. “I am not sure. He mentioned something about a couple of follies, the dovecote, and the ice house.”

  “Which follies?”

  “He has been talking about the Short Tower and the Bath House.” Turning to look at Priscilla, Leah had grabbed a handful of her hair and twisted it up on top of her head. “What do you think, Mama?”

  As she pulled a thick shawl over her head, Priscilla could not remember what she had answered. What a shock to get an image of her younger daughter as a miss who soon would be fired off in her own first Season!

  But the problem at hand was Isaac. Over the past ten minutes, the snow had started falling harder. Priscilla opened the door and paused on the stone terrace beyond it. Mayhap she should bring a servant with her. The labyrinth of the gardens would be difficult on a sunny day.

  She quickly found a gray-haired footman who was willing to act as her guide. He told her that his name was Whitelaw. He nodded when she explained why she needed his help.

  “No boy could resist the lure of exploring those buildings,” Whitelaw said. “We will start with the dovecote because it is the closest of the ones you listed.”

  Priscilla was glad she had listened to her own qualms as they went out into the storm. The footman had brought a lantern, and the light cut through the swirling snowflakes. It was not dark, for it was close to midday, but the color of the ground and the sky were almost identical. She could have gotten lost so easily.

  The wind grew stronger, and the snow battered her bare face. She pulled the shawl up over her cheeks and mouth, leaving only her eyes visible. When the footman offered his arm, she took it gratefully. The snow was falling so fast that their footprints were being erased almost as quickly as they lifted their feet from the snow.

  The dovecote was a large, shadowy box in the storm. Its top curved upward like a bonnet. Whitelaw led her directly to the door and swung it open. The coos of pigeons could be heard over the wind as she stepped inside. Hundreds of nest holes were set into the stone walls. Each hole was big enough so a man could reach all the way to the back, and each had a chalk platform in front of it to allow the birds easier access to their nests. In the center, a thick stone column was edged by primitive steps so a servant could harvest eggs and birds.

  Whitelaw held the lantern high, sweeping the light around the dovecote. He called, “Is anyone here?”

  Priscilla heard her son shout, “Back here.” Hurrying around the column, she saw Isaac on his knees and staring at the nest holes in front of him.

  “Why are you hiding out here in this storm?” she asked.

  “Storm?” Isaac looked up at her, his expression surprised.

  “It is snowing, and we need to get back into the house.”

  “All right, but first. Look at this.” Isaac pointed to the fabric sticking out from one of the nest holes.

  “What is it?”

  “I was trying to figure that out.” He gave her a proud smile. “I remembered how you and Unc
le Neville warned us never to disturb something that might be a clue to a crime.”

  “Crime?” Whitelaw made a strange, choked sound.

  Priscilla ignored the footman as she said, “That is right, Isaac, but why would you think of that here?”

  “May I show you?”

  “Yes.” She motioned to the footman to bring the lantern closer.

  “Look here, Mama.” His finger paused a hair’s breadth from the cloth.

  She bent to peer at the fabric. Dark stains ruined what appeared to be gray silk. From beneath it, a bit of lace was visible. The pattern of a Tudor rose glowed white against the stone. She had seen a similar lace recently, but where?

  Her own gasp burst from her. “That must be Lady Eastbridge’s.” She reached past her son and tilted one corner of the fabric toward the light. The dark spots were unmistakable. “That is blood all over it.”

  “Really?” Isaac leaned forward. “Is that real blood?”

  “It would appear so.” Priscilla slowly withdrew the cloth from the nest hole. Her nose wrinkled as bird droppings fell to the floor that was littered with cast-off feathers. Glancing down, she called, “Whitelaw, bring that lantern closer.”

  The footman complied, but Priscilla saw that any signs of other footprints had vanished as surely as hers had outside in the snow. She saw her son’s and her own, but nothing else.

  She draped the silk over her arm. It was a woman’s gown, and it looked identical to the one Lady Eastbridge had been wearing when she arrived at Symmington Hall. Yet it was covered with blood. How—and when—had that happened? There had been no sign of blood on the countess’s deathbed, and the dress was intact. She examined it, front and back. There were no holes from a knife or a ball. That made no sense. Why was the dress bloodstained but not torn?

  To her son, she asked, “Whatever gave you the idea to come out here?”

  He shrugged. “I was talking to Leah about seeing what was inside some of the buildings, and a couple of servants mentioned the dovecote.”

  “Which ones?”

  With another shrug, he said, “I don’t know. Two women, one young and one older.”

  “Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

  “Mayhap. I am not sure.” His brow furrowed. “But, Mama, if you think they sent me here apurpose, why would they? Only the person who stuffed that gown in the nest hole would know it is here, and why would that person direct me to where I could find it?”

  Priscilla was impressed with his logical thinking, but she also reminded herself that he was just a boy. A boy who was excited about what he had discovered.

  “Isaac, you must not tell anyone about this,” she said.

  “No one? Not even Leah? She will be envious that I was the one to find the gown.”

  She put her hands on his shoulders that seemed to be growing sturdier and broader with every passing day. “This is no jest. That is blood on the dress.”

  He grew serious and nodded. “Yes, Mama. I will tell no one else.”

  Turning, she affixed Whitelaw with her sternest stare. “I must ask the same of you.”

  “But, my lady, if my lord or lady were to ask—”

  “Do you think they have any suspicions of foul play?”

  The footman gulped and shook his head. His hand shook so much that light danced on the walls, flickering in and out of the nest holes.

  “Then,” Priscilla said in her most no-nonsense voice, “there should be no need for them to ask you anything about the dovecote. However, if they do have questions, ask them to send for me or Sir Neville before you answer them.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  With that pledge from both of them, Priscilla gingerly wrapped the gown in one part of her shawl. None of them spoke as they went out into the storm. When Whitelaw grasped one of Isaac’s hands, her son held his other one out to her. She took it, and they fought the strong wind to reach the house.

  Priscilla thanked the footman and asked him to deliver her son to the room where his sisters would be waiting. “Then find Sir Neville and have him meet me. I am going to the Eastbridges’ rooms, then I will return to ours.”

  Hurrying through the house, Priscilla did not allow anyone to halt her by drawing her into a conversation or ask what she carried beneath her shawl. She slowed only when she reached the door of the suite the Eastbridges had been given for their use.

  A knock on the door brought muffled voices, the shocking sound of a giggle, then the rumble of another door closing inside the suite. When the door opened almost a full minute later, Priscilla was surprised that Jeannette did not stand on the other side. Instead it was Lady Eastbridge’s companion, Miss Baldwin. She was patting her hair back into place, and one corner of her hem had been caught up in the top of her stocking.

  “Yes?” Miss Baldwin asked. “How may I help you?”

  Priscilla glanced at the hem, and Miss Baldwin looked down. Bright color flashed up her face as she tugged down her skirt.

  “I would like to speak with Lord Eastbridge.” Priscilla needed every bit of her composure to act as if she had not seen Miss Baldwin’s blush. Truth be told, at that moment, Priscilla did not care that the young brunette was enjoying a secret lover’s company.

  “I don’t know if he is available.” Miss Baldwin kept staring at the floor.

  “He is,” said Jeannette as she appeared behind Miss Baldwin. The maid shot Miss Baldwin a superior look, then smiled at Priscilla. “If you will come in, my lady, I will let the earl know you wish to speak with him.”

  “Thank you,” Priscilla said and stepped into the room. She noticed Jeannette held a dusting cloth. Now that her lady was dead, her position as abigail was no longer needed.

  Again, Miss Baldwin’s gaze followed Priscilla’s. In a sharp tone, Miss Baldwin said, “Finish that later.”

  “But I just started,” the maid protested.

  “Later!”

  Jeannette bowed her head and went through a door into one of the attached bedchambers. She closed it behind her, but Priscilla saw it come slightly ajar. Priscilla considered saying something, then held her tongue. If the maid wished to eavesdrop, she would. As soon as Priscilla showed Lord Eastbridge what Isaac had found, word would spread through the hall anyhow.

  A door opened and Lord Eastbridge emerged. His waistcoat was buttoned wrong. Had she disturbed him when he was sleeping? No, she realized with a pulse of shock, when his gaze met Miss Baldwin’s and a smile pulled at his lips. He looked away, and so did the companion, but the one moment of connection told Priscilla more than she wished to know. If the widower was finding more than companionship with his late wife’s companion, it was no bread-and-butter of Priscilla’s.

  “My dear lady,” he said, as he crossed the room. “I was told you wish to see me.”

  “No,” Priscilla replied. “I have something I wish you to see.”

  “What is it?”

  “You may wish to see it alone.” Her tone was clipped with the vexation she struggled to suppress.

  He smiled, appearing cup-shot. “That is an enticing remark, Lady Priscilla.”

  He was drunk, Priscilla realized, and her anger eased. If he had been trying to find surcease for his grief by giving a bottle a black eye, she should not judge him. She could not help recalling her own grief at Lazarus’s passing and her fear that she would never be able to climb out of the deep pit of sorrow.

  He took a single step and collapsed to one knee. The door that had been ajar burst open and Jeannette rushed out.

  “Jeannette, would you help the earl to a comfortable seat?” Priscilla asked, glad the maid had been watching.

  Jeannette hurried forward to obey. The earl went with her compliantly, then turned to smile again at Priscilla and hold out his hand to her. No, not at Priscilla, but at
Miss Baldwin, who stood behind her.

  Priscilla shrugged off her shawl and carried it to a settee in the middle of the room. Turning to face the trio, she said, “What I am about to reveal will be disturbing because it is covered with blood.”

  “Blood?” The single word seemed to sober the earl instantly. He stopped staring at Miss Baldwin, turning his full attention on Priscilla.

  “Blood?” repeated a deeper voice from the doorway to the corridor.

  Priscilla wanted to run to Neville and throw her arms around him. That was impossible while the bloodstained gown was hidden in her shawl. Neville’s face was chafed red with the cold wind, and she guessed Whitelaw had gotten her message to him as soon as Neville returned to Symmington Hall.

  Quickly, Priscilla explained how she had gone to find Isaac and discovered him in the dovecote. “He had noticed fabric sticking out of one of the nest holes. When he went to investigate, he found one of Lady Eastbridge’s gowns. It was soaked with blood.”

  “Impossible!” The earl jumped to his feet, then gripped the chair before he tumbled off them.

  “You must be mistaken.” Miss Baldwin’s face was as gray as a corpse’s. “Lady Eastbridge died of heart pains. There was no bleeding.” Priscilla draped the bloodstained garment over the back of a chair. “Didn’t this belong to the countess?”

  The earl and Miss Baldwin edged closer. Jeannette held back, her mouth working as if she fought not to be ill. She put her hand over her stomach and turned to face the wall.

  Neville strode across the room. He clasped his hands behind his back as he leaned in to examine the gown. “What makes you believe it belonged to the late lady, Pris?”

  “The lace. It has a Tudor rose design. This gown looks exactly like the one Lady Eastbridge was wearing when she arrived here.” She pointed to the hem. “Look. There are the mud stains that were on it when she arrived. Is it the same gown, Miss Baldwin?”

  “Yes,” the companion said uneasily, “it looks like one of my lady’s gowns, but I swear to you, Lady Priscilla, that the countess had not lost any blood.”