“Beatrice has just arrived.”
Still groggy, I dragged myself to my feet, and Cécile took my arm. “I am worried about her, Kallista. She is extremely upset.”
Lizzie was standing in the hallway outside the drawing room and opened the door for us. “Will you want tea for Mrs. Francis, madam?”
“Yes, please,” I replied, thinking it was odd that Lizzie knew the identity of my caller. Surely Davis would not have sent her to hover outside the room. This thought was entirely forgotten, however, when I saw Beatrice’s tear-streaked face.
“The police have proof that Jane Stilleman delivered the poison to David’s room,” she said, pulling on her black-hemmed handkerchief with such force that I thought it would rip.
“My dear friend, sit,” I said, ushering her to a chair. “You must try to calm down.”
“This is too awful to bear,” she said, sobbing. “They will hang her, you know.”
“What is their evidence?” I asked.
“One of the housemaids was changing the bed linens the day before David died. While she was in the room, Jane came in with a bottle of shaving lotion. The maid remembers this, because the valet—”
“Stilleman?”
“Yes. He was also in the room and told Jane that it was not the proper kind of lotion. David always used Penhaligon’s, and this was from Floris. She insisted that it had been delivered for Mr. Francis and persuaded her husband to set it with the other toiletries.”
“Has this maid any reason to want Jane found guilty?” Cécile asked.
“Of course not. I’ve told you, Jane is a sweet girl. No one would want to harm her.”
“I know you’re distressed,” I said. “But we must look at the facts before us with as little bias as possible. Jane was having an affair. There may be persons other than her husband who were upset by this. I shall come to Richmond tomorrow and see what I can uncover.”
“I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t turn to you.”
Davis opened the door. “Mrs. Brandon to see you, madam.” Ivy came in, looking more drawn and fatigued than I had ever before seen her. As soon as she saw Beatrice, however, she forced a bright smile and acted delighted to make the acquaintance. Beatrice, too, pulled herself together with remarkable speed. They conversed effortlessly, breezing through society’s favorite banal subjects, neither of them paying any real attention to what the other said. It was as if the exchange were perfectly choreographed.
I was unnerved to see how well Ivy had slid into the role of society lady, hiding her emotions, concerned only with putting on a polite appearance. And as for Beatrice, although I did not know her so well as I did Ivy, it was an extraordinary thing to watch her bury emotions that only moments before had completely overwhelmed her. I tried to catch Cécile’s eye, but she was busy removing Brutus from a battle with my velvet curtain. I’m sorry to say that the curtain appeared to have lost the struggle.
“Emily and Cécile, I’ve no desire to keep you from your charming friend,” Beatrice said. “Forgive my intrusion, and please accept my thanks for your assistance.” She took her leave just as Lizzie entered with a tea tray.
“Are you well, Ivy?” Cécile asked.
“Everything is lovely, thank you, Madame du Lac,” Ivy replied, watching the maid pour. “Those are beautiful teacups, Emily. Have you always had them?”
“I never took you for a connoisseur of china,” I said. Brutus, not pleased with being pulled off the drapes, turned his attention to Lizzie’s skirts. I picked up the dog, dropped him into Cécile’s lap, and dismissed the maid. “Come now, what is troubling you?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Ivy said, her pretty brow furrowed.
“There are no servants here. You are free to say anything you wish.”
She cringed. “Am I so obvious?”
“Oui,” Cécile replied. “And I think you will speak more frankly if I leave you to Kallista.”
“Oh, madame, I wouldn’t want to drive you from your tea.”
“Do not trouble yourself. I’ve no interest in tea and only drink it when Kallista forces it upon me.” She collected her dogs—Caesar, never as bad-mannered as Brutus, was sitting quietly under his owner’s chair—and sailed out of the room, giving Ivy a reassuring pat on the arm as she passed her.
“I’m afraid I’ve had a rather brutal day,” Ivy said. “Robert’s mother and I have been working together to rearrange the paintings in the family portrait gallery.” Ivy’s mother-in-law had a tendency to meddle, but Ivy, brilliant in her ability to manage people, had quickly figured out how to make the former mistress of her house feel useful, even necessary, without bowing to her every wish.
“Surely you’ve made her think that your ideas are her own, and the pictures are precisely where you’d like them.”
“Not quite. I couldn’t bear to spend another moment surrounded by Robert’s ghastly ancestors all looking as if they’re sitting in judgment on me, and had a footman remove a picture of some woman with her thirteen hideous children. Mrs. Brandon was rather affronted.”
“I can well imagine. What brings on this sudden animosity?” I had my suspicions, but instead of saying so, put my arm around my friend and drew her head onto my shoulder.
“Do you ever speak with Philip’s mother?” she asked.
“Not often. She calls on me occasionally if she’s in town.”
“I suppose you would see her more often if you and Philip had a child.”
“Is Robert’s mother beginning to prod you about producing an heir?”
“She would never bring up such a delicate subject.”
“But she can’t help applying subtle pressure,” I said.
“It’s not just her.” I poured her more tea, and she emptied the cup in one gulp. “Robert and I have been married for almost a year. Every person to whom I speak inquires pointedly after my health.”
“That’s common courtesy, Ivy.”
“I don’t think so.” She filled her cup and drained it quickly again. “They look at me. To see if I’m tired. Or flushed. It’s intolerable.”
“My poor dear. Has Robert commented on the situation?”
“He dances around the issue, asking me every few weeks if I have any news.”
“Well, I suppose—”
“When he knows perfectly well that…that…he would have to…that with him gone so frequently…” She poured still another cup of tea but this time did not drink it, just stirred and stirred the contents with a small silver spoon.
“Is he neglecting you?”
“Of course not! But entering politics is awfully time-consuming, and he winds up going to his club most evenings after we come home.”
“And he doesn’t want to wake you when he returns?”
“He almost never comes to me,” she said in a voice hardly above a whisper.
My heart broke for her. The most obvious explanation for her husband’s behavior would be a mistress, though I found it hard to believe he would have strayed so early in their marriage. “Are things between you well otherwise?”
“You know Robert. He’s a consummate gentleman. Attentive, kind, generous.”
“But not quite attentive enough.”
Ivy turned red to her fingertips. “How was it with you and Philip?”
“Oh, Ivy, you can’t compare that. We were hardly together beyond our wedding trip.”
“I’m probably overreacting,” she said. “When he needs my comfort, he’ll find me. I have to learn to be more patient.”
I stopped her stirring her tea. “Ivy, marriage is a partnership. Your need for comfort is as important as his, and it’s obvious that you need more than he is giving you. Can’t you talk to him? Tell him your feelings?”
“I would never want to be a source of worry to him.”
“Surely a man who loves you would not want you to feel so unhappy?” I wondered if Robert did love her and continued quickly. “Perhaps this is nothing more than a miscommunication
. Why don’t you tell him that you’d like to see him after he gets home?”
“I couldn’t do that!”
“Why on earth not?”
“It would be as if I were…really, Emily, I could never say that!”
“That is most unfortunate.”
“Not everyone is as comfortable with unconventional behavior as you are.”
“Ivy! Are you reprimanding me?”
She burst into tears. “No, no, of course not. But your life, Emily, is not at all like mine anymore. You’re happy to be on your own. I’m not. All I want is to be a good wife and bring Robert happiness.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” I embraced her.
“I know you don’t believe that,” she said.
She was right, and I felt terrible. We had been inseparable since we were girls, learning to embroider side by side, picking out our first ball gowns together, swapping sensational novels. We had even been presented at court on the same day. But ever since her marriage and my realization that I wanted to pursue an intellectual life, our lives had veered in different directions. “Just because I haven’t followed the same path as you doesn’t mean that I condemn your choices,” I said.
“You think your choices are better.”
“Better for me, not for you.” A silence hung between us. “You know that I respect your decisions. I just don’t want to see society engulf you and churn out another perfect matron.”
“There’s no danger of that happening.”
“There is if your only purpose in life is to keep Robert comfortable. When is the last time you brought me a book to read?”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Robert does not much like popular fiction.”
It outraged me that she would alter her reading habits at the whim of her husband, but I decided that, for once, I ought not say what I was thinking. “You are not giving Robert the credit he deserves. He does drink port with you, does he not?”
“Yes, when we dine alone.”
“And it’s been what? Five? Six months since you started drinking port? You’ve given him plenty of time to get used to modern thinking. It’s undoubtedly safe to introduce literature to the household.”
This brought the beginnings of a smile to Ivy’s face. “I’d hardly call the novels we read literature.”
11
IVY LEFT WITH MY COPY OF MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON’S MOUNT Royal. Mrs. Braddon had for years been one of our favorite guilty pleasures. I had brought another of her books, Lady Audley’s Secret, on my honeymoon, and had no doubt that the author’s retelling of the story of Tristran and Iseult would give my friend relief from her marital woes. Eventually, however, she would need more than simple distraction. I was determined to find a way to gently persuade her to take a more active role in her relationship with her husband. This might prove more difficult than uncovering the identity of my mysterious admirer.
I went to Richmond as early as possible the next morning, eager to see what Jane Stilleman’s peers thought of her. The response was underwhelming. While no one expressed animosity towards her, she did not seem to have any particular friends amongst the staff. Beatrice was waiting for me in her sitting room, pacing nervously, desperate for new information.
“There must be something we’ve overlooked,” she said.
“It will perhaps be easier to prove someone else’s guilt than to prove Jane’s innocence. I’m very curious about the snuffbox that was stolen from you. Have you any idea how your husband acquired it?”
“It was a gift from one of the Sinclairs’ servants. They’re our nearest neighbors.”
“Isn’t that a bit odd? A servant giving a gift to a gentleman?”
“Not for David. He was generosity itself, always doing what he could for those less fortunate. It was not uncommon at all for those he had helped to offer him some sort of thanks, however humble it might be.”
A silver box that had belonged to Marie Antoinette could hardly be described as humble. “Do you know the servant’s name?”
“Dunston, I believe. Jeanne Dunston. I’ve no idea what David did for her.”
I set off at once to call on the Sinclairs. Beatrice’s house stood on a small piece of land that backed into her neighbors’ magnificent park, and a walk was just what I needed to gather my thoughts before descending upon them unannounced. I took solace in the knowledge that my rank would allow me to get away with this sort of thing.
Mrs. Sinclair received me without the slightest indication that she found my arrival out of the ordinary. She was gracious and elegant, plied me with tea and cakes, and happily answered my questions about her servant.
“Jeanne was a treasure, an absolute treasure. Her father worked in the stable when my husband was a boy, and her grandmother was with the family before that.”
“But Jeanne is no longer with you?”
“No. She died some months ago. She was quite old.”
“I understand that she gave a silver snuffbox to your neighbor, David Francis. Were you aware of that?”
“Yes. He had helped her with some family matter. I don’t know the details, but imagine that it had something to do with her son, who turned out very wicked. It was he who should have been given the box—it had been in their family for ages. But he disappeared years ago.”
“Did she have no idea where he went?”
“My husband tried to locate him when Jeanne fell ill, but to no avail. He had notices of her death printed in the papers, but Joseph didn’t come to the funeral.”
“His name is Joseph?”
“His mother called him that, but it appears that he took a different name after he left our house.”
“I am sorry that he never reconciled with his mother,” I said automatically, though the sentiment was not entirely heartfelt. Unless I heard proof of Joseph’s guilt, I would withhold judgment against him. “Have you any idea how the box came to be in the Dunstons’ possession?”
“Not in the slightest. Jeanne’s grandmother fled France during the revolution. I suppose she picked it up before she left.”
“Perhaps it was a gift from her previous employer?”
“Highly unlikely. Who would give a servant such a valuable item? I imagine it was one of the many objects looted from Versailles. Not, mind you, that I am suggesting she stole it.”
“Of course not,” I replied.
“And now the box has been stolen from poor Mrs. Francis. She must be devastated.”
“Do you know her well?”
“I can’t say that I do. The Francises are good neighbors but not much interested in society.”
When we had finished our tea, Mrs. Sinclair was kind enough to allow me to question her servants. None of them knew where Joseph Dunston might be found, and only one admitted to knowing about the silver snuffbox. The girl, a young maid, had walked into Jeanne’s room while the woman was looking at the box.
“She snapped it shut the second she saw me and scolded me something fierce for coming in without knocking.”
This snuffbox grew more interesting with every passing moment. I was still wondering what Jeanne Dunston might have hidden in it when, on my way out of the house, I noticed a striking sculpture in their foyer: Greek, from the Archaic Period. I looked at it carefully, trying to memorize its details and wondered if the Sinclairs could be convinced that it belonged in the British Museum.
Colin’s hat and walking stick were in the hallway when I returned home, and, thrilled at the thought of him waiting for me, I started for the library, only to be stopped by Davis.
“Mr. Hargreaves and Mrs. du Lac are in the blue drawing room, madam. Mr. Hargreaves asked most emphatically that they not be disturbed, though I am certain he would not include you in a list of potential disturbers. Also, while you were gone, four cases of champagne arrived from Berry Bros. and Rudd.”
“Did Madame du Lac order them?”
“Apparently not. The deliveryman said they were sent as a gift but didn’t know from whom. P
erhaps Mr. Hargreaves?”
“I’ve always considered him more of a port man, don’t you, Davis?”
“If I may, Lady Ashton, I believe Mr. Hargreaves was always exceedingly fond of the viscount’s whiskey.”
“I had not realized, Davis. Thank you.” My butler looked immensely pleased with himself.
When I reached the sitting room, I opened the door slowly. Colin and Cécile sat next to each other at a game table, papers strewn all over its inlaid surface. Colin snapped to attention the moment I cracked the door but relaxed when he saw me and continued his conversation.
“I am indebted to you, Madame du Lac,” he said, hardly pausing to acknowledge me.
Cécile shrugged. “I have little concern for the Prince of Wales and his reputation but admire the loyalty you feel for your country. For you, I will offer my help.”
“While I am grateful for the compliment, I suspect you are as concerned about the welfare of France as I am for that of the British Empire.”
“What, may I ask, are you two scheming so secretly?” I sat at the table across from Colin.
“Monsieur Hargreaves needs me to return to Paris.”
“Paris? Oh, Cécile—”
“There is to be no argument. You cannot expect me to resist the will of a man as handsome as he.”
Colin smiled. “There is a political scandal brewing that threatens both of our countries. I need Madame du Lac’s assistance with a particular gentleman in Paris.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What sort of assistance?”
“Whatever sort it might take,” Cécile replied.
“Has this to do with Charles Berry?”
“Yes,” Colin said. “It appears that his talk of gaining a crown has not sprung wholly out of his imagination. There are plans under way to topple the Third Republic and restore the monarchy to France.”
“How does that threaten England?”
“We are more secure if our neighbor has a stable government.”
“And how is the Prince of Wales involved?”
“He and Berry have become fast friends.”
“Two kings, as it were?”
“So Berry would like. But should this coup fail—and I am confident that it will”—he looked at Cécile as he said this—“it will not benefit the prince to be viewed as someone who supported an attempt to overthrow a foreign government.”
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