A Poisoned Season

by Tasha Alexander

  “Madam, I can assure you that I—”

  “I would never, for a moment, suspect that you were involved.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But what of the rest of the staff? Have you noticed any discontent belowstairs?”

  “I can’t say that I have, but let me assure you that I shall look into it at once.”

  I hated the notion that there was someone in my own household spreading rumors about me, and that, coupled with my recent revelation that the house was not really mine, made me feel horribly unsettled. The feeling was to quickly get worse. That afternoon, Philip’s sister, Anne, called on me. I did not see her often—we’d never been close—but we respected each other and had always been on friendly terms.

  “The house looks lovely,” she said as she sat in the drawing room. She and Philip had grown up here, at least when they weren’t in Derbyshire at Ashton Hall. It was Anne who had insisted that I stay here after Philip’s death. She and her husband had a fine house in Belgravia and hadn’t wanted to see me displaced.

  “It’s kind of you to call,” I said. She refused my offer of tea and played nervously with the trim on her sleeves.

  “All of us in the family are…concerned, Emily. It’s not that we believe these dreadful stories circulating about you, but…it’s awkward, you see. This was Philip’s house, and will be Alexander’s someday—”

  “It’s Alexander’s now,” I said. “I’m fully aware that I am here only because of your own generosity.”

  “Mother doesn’t know what’s being said about you, but I’m afraid that if she were to find out, she’d insist that you leave at once.”

  “But I haven’t done anything, Anne.”

  “Of course you haven’t. Yet the house at Berkeley Square is gaining a sort of notoriety. Can you understand that we must do everything we can to avoid having the family name embroiled in scandal?”

  “I understand perfectly. I shall start looking for another house.”

  “No, Emily, I’m not here to evict you from your home. We all know how much Philip loved you and wouldn’t dream of asking you to leave unless…” She didn’t continue but blushed furiously. I was struck by how much she looked like her brother, the same sandy hair and light eyes. “Perhaps you could just try to fit in better in society. I know that you find it tedious, but it is our lot in life, and we may as well make the best of it.”

  She didn’t stay long, and I felt perfectly awful when she left. It was true that I found much of society tedious, but I had never intended to make my casual acquaintances feel it so keenly. I wanted to be gracious, kind, to put others at ease, not to make them feel as if I were sitting in judgment of them. Clearly, I was not succeeding at any of this, and regardless of Anne’s reassurances, I knew the time had come for me to find a house of my own.

  I did not leap eagerly to the task of looking for a house, but did force myself to discuss the matter with my solicitor. He was shocked that I would consider leaving my current home, which I took as evidence that the story of my downfall was not so well known that it had spread even to the professional classes. Of course, I would need not only a house, but also to furnish it entirely, fill it with books, and hire a staff. I couldn’t expect to take all of the Ashton servants with me, but I would fight to the death to keep Davis. Him, I could not do without.

  I left the office feeling thoroughly downtrodden, as if my life were being taken apart a piece at a time. I walked aimlessly for a while, wanting to sit in the park but knowing that I would encounter nothing but icy stares there. I might as well return home.

  Back at Berkeley Square, I found the stage set for a scene that had been played out too many times in my life: I, tense and worried, would arrive home to find my mother, irritated and ready to lecture, waiting for me. Resigned to go at least one round with her—I hadn’t spoken to her since this latest debacle over Jeremy—I greeted her with a sigh and sank into a chair, surprised to find that she was in the library, not the drawing room.

  “I will accept none of this, you know,” she said, tapping the point of her parasol against the floor. “You have behaved badly—there is no question of that—and after all your father and I have done for you, we deserve better.” I could not bring myself to respond; this, however, presented no problem. My mother always preferred soliloquies to dialogue. “Through it all, I have done whatever I can to secure you the best possible position, and I will not abide having my work destroyed by idle gossip.”

  “Mother, I can assure you that I never—”

  “Do not interrupt me. It is intolerable to think that the daughter of an earl could be treated with such absolute contempt, that her reputation could be sullied on the basis of so little fact.”

  “Mother?” I was aghast.

  “Why shouldn’t a gentleman send you a roomful of flowers? You’re quite possibly the richest girl in England. I shouldn’t think you’d have to do more than slightly acknowledge an eligible bachelor to inspire him to such a gesture. The idea that he would have done it only after…” She had no intention of finishing the thought. “I despair for the jealous cow who invented this fiction.”

  I sat there with my mouth open, completely unable to form a coherent thought. Never did I think I would see the day when my mother, my harshest critic, would come to my defense.

  “I won’t stand for it, that’s all there is to it. You’ve invited more than your share of trouble, but these stories have gone too far. Even if you were guilty, it would go against all things decent to give away one of our class, and that’s what these vicious people are doing. I know of more badly managed affairs than I can count but would never have the bad taste to expose those involved.”

  She paused for a moment, hoping, I think, that I would press her for details of these affairs. When it became clear I was not going to, she continued.

  “I’ve arranged for us to have tea with the queen on Tuesday next. No one can doubt your innocence after that. Her Majesty would never tolerate being in the presence of a fallen woman. I wonder if you should wear mourning?”

  “I’ve been out of mourning for months.”

  “Yes, but you haven’t seen the queen in all that time. You might endear yourself to her if she thinks that you honor your late husband the way she does poor Prince Albert.”

  “But surely someone will point out to her that I stopped wearing mourning, and she’ll think I’m being insincere.”

  “Oh, I suppose so. Still, it wouldn’t harm you to return to, not mourning, precisely, but maybe some sort of fashionable dress in subdued colors. If only you had been able to get some of the viscount’s hair to make into a ring.”

  “If only,” I said, managing not to roll my eyes.

  “This would all be much easier if you would just behave like any other rational girl and marry one of your suitors. I don’t care whom, though why you haven’t accepted Bainbridge is a mystery to me. It’s almost as if you don’t want to be a duchess, but that, of course, would be absurd.”

  “What makes you think that he’s proposed?”

  “Don’t toy with me, Emily. If you wanted him you could have him on a platter.”

  Hearing my mother speak like this made me smile, then laugh, so hard that I had difficulty breathing. She watched me, her lips pursed, not amused in the least.

  “Are you quite finished?” she asked. “There is an art to catching a husband, an art to which you have an inexplicable aversion.” Her eyes narrowed. “Yet, you still manage to attract gentlemen, primarily because of your pedigree and your fortune. Your…unique…character may draw them in, too, I suppose. But think hard, Emily. Do you really intend to stay alone the rest of your life? The women in our family are known for their longevity. Ninety years is a long time to live by oneself.”

  I thought it best not to point out that, longevity of the Bromley women aside, I was unlikely to live another ninety years from the present, and even if I did, it would be virtually impossible to find a husband who could manage the s
ame thing.

  “I will do everything I can to stop these rumors. I’m convinced that Lady Frideswide is behind them. She’s furious that Lettice has been thrown over. I’m sorry for the girl, but she wouldn’t make much of a duchess. Dull as dishwater. Bainbridge would be much better off with you. His family could use some fresh blood. For all your faults, Emily—and make no mistake, you have many—there has always been a sparkle about you.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” I did not fight the tears that filled my eyes. I couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever said something so kind to me.

  “You will undoubtedly send me to an early grave, but I’ll not let anyone destroy your chances for a good marriage. We must not forget Mr. Hargreaves, either. Another very attractive option. And what a gentleman! I’ve heard all about him taking you to the opera.”

  “It was lovely of him.”

  “Be warned, though. A man like that will not tolerate your games indefinitely. Oh, he finds you entrancing now, but before you know it—”

  “Yes, Mother, my looks will fade. I know, I know.”

  She rose from her chair. “You will have to alter your behavior, Emily, or you will find yourself continually subjected to this sort of gossip. The sooner you accept that, the better off we will all be.” She adjusted the collar of my dress and scowled at my waist. “Your corset is practically hanging off you. What is wrong with your maid?”

  “It’s not hanging off me, I just didn’t want it laced tightly. I find that being able to breathe greatly enhances my daily life.”

  “I really hope we can find a husband who will tolerate you. It’s a pity that Charles Berry—”

  “There is nothing that could ever induce me to marry such a man.”

  “A woman could tolerate a great deal to marry into a royal family.”

  “Forgive me, Mother, but if I am to marry royalty, I want a prince who has an actual throne.” Her eyes brightened, and I could see her beginning to silently catalog all the bachelor princes of Europe. Eventually, she would come to the conclusion that none of them would want a widow, but, in the meantime, I would not spoil her fun by pointing out that I would want none of them, either.

  When she left, I walked her to the door. As Davis closed it behind her, he smiled, quite unabashedly, at me. “She asked to wait for you in the library, madam.”

  18

  MY MOTHER’S EFFORTS ON BEHALF OF MY REPUTATION WERE NOT IN vain. Somehow, she managed to broker an uneasy peace between society and me. Although I was still not being invited to many of the best parties, no one dared to openly cut me, and my situation could only improve after the following week’s tea with the queen. And so I learned that there are, in fact, benefits to having an absolute dragon for a mother, and I loved her for it. I know not what my mother said to Lady Elliott, but I received from her a gracious note of apology and a belated invitation to a soirée she was hosting. I sent a gracious note of my own, determined to remain above reproach, but declined the invitation. My mother might want me to change my behavior, but she had to have realistic expectations. Although I was not about to embrace all the nonsense required by society, I was going to make a very deliberate effort to make sure that no one ever felt belittled by me for having chosen to play all its games.

  I took to spending days when the weather was fine in the park but avoided the fashionable sections. This chagrined my mother, who shuddered at the thought of running into people from Bayswater or, worse, those who rowed boats on the Serpentine, but she managed to keep most of her criticisms to herself.

  Relishing the shade provided by a large plane tree, I sat in the same spot each day, hoping that this predictable routine would draw the attention of my admirer, who had remained silent for far too long. I would bring my Greek with me, and work at translating the Odyssey while attempting to take note of anyone who seemed to be watching me. Not once, however, either while walking to or from the park, or while I was sitting in it, did I notice anything suspicious. It was a grave disappointment.

  One morning, as the sun slipped behind an ominous-looking cloud, I was gathering my books, not wanting to be caught in the rain, when a small, very dirty boy ran up to me.

  “Are you Lady Ashton?” he asked.

  “I am. Who are you?”

  “Johnny. A gent asked me to bring you these.” He handed over a thick bundle of letters held together with a blue ribbon. The handwriting was that of Léonard.

  “What gentleman?”

  “He’s right over there.” The boy pointed behind me, and I whipped around as fast as I could but saw no one. When I turned back, he had started running away from me in the opposite direction.

  “Johnny, wait!” I cried, setting off after him. I was able to keep him in sight for a few minutes, but my heeled boots and fashionable gown made me no match for his speed, and I stopped, out of breath, the letters still in my hand. A quick survey of the area told me that my quest was futile. The boy had disappeared, and the gentleman, too…if he had even been there in the first place. I walked back to the bench, only to find that my books, my notebook, and my pencil were gone.

  This took my breath away more than the running had. My copy of the Odyssey had been Philip’s. It was bound in the finest Moroccan leather and matched his Iliad. He had written his name on the front page and made very light pencil marks to highlight his favorite passages. I felt sick. I had taken to copying down those passages in the original Greek, as I had done with the Iliad before, but was only halfway through the volume. Now I would never know what he thought of the rest of the book. And his nephew, the new viscount, whom Philip had hoped would share his love of all things classical, had lost another connection to his uncle.

  I buried these thoughts as best I could and went home. At least I had the letters. Back in my library, I did not sit at my desk—Philip’s desk—but instead took the bundle to the window seat and began to read. I raced through the first three without pausing, grateful that I was fluent in French. But as I started in on the fourth, two things struck me. First, that my admirer, who I assumed had sent them to me, had left no note of his own, and second, that I had not the slightest clue what I hoped to find in them.

  I pulled Marie Antoinette’s letters out from the desk drawer in which I had placed them—the same drawer in which I kept Philip’s journal, and the sight of that familiar book at once warmed my heart. I picked it up for just a moment and opened it but did not read even one sentence. Somehow, the feel of the ink on the pages brought me comfort, as if they had the power to forgive me for having lost the Odyssey, and I decided to continue my work at the desk. I took stock of the letters. There were thirty-six altogether: sixteen of them written by the queen, twenty by Léonard. I sorted through both sets, laying them out by date, so that they could be read in the sequence written, but this strategy brought no new illumination. The correspondence provided only a mundane account of the queen’s days in prison, with the revelation of not a single significant detail.

  Jane Stilleman’s trial was to begin before long, and I had let myself run amuck with this foolish notion that reading hundred-year-old letters would somehow help me find David Francis’s murderer. I was now hideously short of time and could not afford to squander any more. The letters, my admirer, and Charles Berry were proving to be nothing more than fruitless distractions. Davis rallied me from this unpleasant thought by announcing that Ivy was waiting for me in the drawing room.

  “You should have brought her here,” I said as I breezed past him into the hallway.

  “Your callers seem to have their own opinions about what room they would like to be received in, madam. Who am I to argue?”

  Ivy was not sitting when I entered the room. “Good afternoon, Emily,” she said, all formal courtesy.

  “Heavens, Ivy! What’s the matter?”

  “I came here to apologize for not having done anything to assist you these past weeks. I’ve been entirely remiss as a friend.” I pulled her down next to me on the settee.

 
“Why is it always too early for port when we are faced with these sorts of conversations?” My question did not draw even the slightest smile to her face. “I’m perfectly aware that I’ve put you in far too many awkward situations. If anything, it’s I who should be apologizing to you.”

  “You deserve a friend who understands you better, Emily. Colin brought you to the opera. Margaret and Jeremy persuaded her parents to join you. Your own mother has come to your aid. But all I have done is sit, listen to the gossip, and say nothing more than that I can’t believe you would do such a thing.”

  “Your job is not to disprove these rumors.”

  “No, but I should have at least tried to offer an impassioned defense of your character.”

  “I’m not sure that my character would stand up to an impassioned defense.”

  She still would not smile. “I’m so sorry, Emily. I’ve just become so embroiled in my own troubles that I’ve no longer time to manage yours.” I was not certain whether she meant this as an explanation or a good-bye. “I need to return this to you.” She handed me the book she’d been holding: my copy of Mount Royal.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I never had the chance to finish it.”

  “What are these troubles, Ivy? Are you and Robert still having difficulties?”

  “Yes, but it’s more than that. Lord Fortescue is heaping pressure on him, and—”

  “And Lord Fortescue doesn’t think it becomes the wife of a future cabinet minister to consort with a fallen woman?”

  “You always were too clever,” she said.

  “I have such a low opinion of Lord Fortescue that nothing you could tell me about him would shock me. What has he done now?”

  “He wants you off the guest list for my ball and has had very sharp words with Robert over our friendship.”

  “I’m sorry, Ivy.”