by Cheryl Bolen
Chapter 10
Their trip through Hyde Park was cut short when the skies erupted. Emma’s disappointment vanished the moment she walked into their house and Studewood informed her that Madame De Guerney had delivered her new dresses. "Two carriages were full of the lovely gowns. I've taken the liberty of delivering them to Mrs. Birmingham's chambers. A pity there's no maid to deal with them."
"It's only a matter of time before my wife gets her own maid," Adam said.
She turned to her husband. "Oh, you must come and see, Adam! You must tell me which you prefer me to wear to dinner tonight."
He offered his arm as they mounted the stairs. She was reminded of the first time she had climbed these stairs with him, and it had been she who had taken his arm in an attempt to steady him, fearing the inebriated man would tumble down the stairs. Thank God he was no longer that man.
When they strolled into her bedchamber and she saw the two stacks of elegant gowns piled upon her bed, she gasped. "They're all so beautiful! I cannot believe they're to be mine."
"You need to become accustomed to having beautiful things." He moved closer and set a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Which should you like me to wear to dinner?"
"The pale blue. Tomorrow night I shall take you to the theatre. Then you must wear the lavender gown with your amethyst and diamond necklace. "
The one that had been owned by a member of the Bourbon royal family. Even with the magnificent necklace and the beautiful gown, she worried she would look like a dowdy imposter. She had no talent in dressing hair. And there was the fact she was quite plain.
A rap sounded at her door. "Come in," Adam said.
Studewood entered the chamber, trailed by a girl who looked no more than sixteen. "Lady Sophia has sent this young female to be your maid." He looked at the girl. "I'll have you tell Mrs. Birmingham about your qualifications." He then eyed Emma. "If madam isn't satisfied, there will be other candidates." He turned and left the chamber.
Adam began to move toward the door."Since this is a lady's discussion, I'll be in my library, dear one."
Emma invited the girl to sit beside her on the settee. "Now, tell me about yourself." The girl could not have been in service for very long. She was so young.
"My name is Therese." She spoke English with a heavy French accent. "The truth is that I have not yet taken a position as a lady's maid, but my sister she is maid to Lady Maryann, who is sister to Lady Sophia, who is, I am told, some kind of sister to you."
Emma nodded. Were French maids not the most desired?
"My sister is very capable, and she has trained me. I will take care of your . . ." Her gaze went to the pile of dresses on the bed. "Your beautiful dresses, and I am told that I have the gift of dressing madame's hair."
Despite Studewood's warning, Emma's intuition told her she could do no better than to engage Therese. "That is exactly what I need. Do you suppose you could start today?"
* * *
When his wife entered the dinner room, he stood as he always did when a female entered a chamber, but this time he was stunned at how truly lovely Emma looked. He'd been telling her that she would be the toast of the ton, but he hadn't really thought she would be this striking. Of course, she was not a radiant beauty like Maria, but she would most certainly draw attention. His lazy gaze went from her swept up hair, along her sweet face, down her graceful neck to the soft swell of breasts. His breath hitched. "You're more beautiful than I thought possible."
He walked toward her, set his hand to her waist, and guided her to her chair. "I take it you engaged the maid?"
She lowered herself into the chair to which he had led her. "I did, and I'm very pleased with her."
"As am I."
As he dined on clear turtle soup, followed by turbot, he kept staring at her. It was as if she were a different person. She was the same Emma, yet she wasn't. Dressed so elegantly, she now easily looked her age, looked like a privileged young matron. As pleased as he was, a part of him mourned for the loss of that girl in the sprigged muslin dress.
When he'd offered her marriage, he thought only of making a hysterical young woman happy. He had been pleased it was within his power to brighten her life. Now, though, he realized she looked like a wife who would bring him credit. Women would embrace friendship with one so wholesome looking. Men would admire her fine good looks.
Part of his attraction to Maria had been the pride that strummed through him when men looked hungrily at her. She'd been like a prized race horse—which somewhat shamed him now. Nevertheless, he was looking forward to sitting in his box tomorrow night, knowing that all eyes would be on his lovely wife.
"What are your plans for tomorrow?" she asked.
"I thought we'd return to Wycliff's in the morning."
She nodded. "And in the afternoon?"
"Would you like to go to the British Museum?
Her smile was as radiant as the chandelier that hung above their table. "Indeed I would."
* * *
Therese helped her into her night shift, then after bidding her mistress good night, took Emma's lovely new dress away to care for it.
In bed, Emma had a difficult time falling asleep. She kept remembering how Adam had stared at her when she had walked into the dinner room. For the first time in her life, she had felt like a woman. She'd been flattered when he'd said she was beautiful. It was an exaggeration, of course, but she'd actually felt like a great beauty as she sat beside him and felt his eyes continuing to peruse the new Emma.
Lying in the bed so close to her husband's bedchamber made her startlingly aware of what an empty marriage theirs was. She felt guilty for her melancholy thoughts. It wasn't as if she wasn't grateful to him. Because of his kindness, she had a lovely home, beautiful gowns and jewels—and London. Those things should make her very happy. She was happy, happier than she'd ever been, but that one omission—his love—kept her from enjoying perfect happiness.
Not that she deserved perfect happiness. She did not deserve any of these wondrous things. She'd done nothing to deserve them. It wasn't even as if she were a great beauty he should like to hang on his arm.
Her thoughts tangled in her mind and kept her from sleeping. She found herself wondering if she and Adam would ever have children. Then, quite naturally, she wondered if Adam would ever share her bed. The very thought spiked her pulse. Which kept her awake for a considerable period of time.
* * *
Therese had opened the draperies in Emma's bedchamber to fill the room with brilliant sunlight. Emma was surprised she had slept so late. But, of course, it was near dawn before sleep finally fell over her.
Because of the sunshine, it was impossible to be melancholy this morning. She sat in her bed propped up on mounds of pillows, sipping her hot chocolate. Aunt Harriett would have been mortified at her indolence, but Emma felt as if she were in an intoxicating dream. Everything was so wondrous. Never would she have thought to have so beautiful a bedchamber, to be mistress of so fine a home, to be wife to the most perfect of beings. (For she believed he must have conquered his sottishness.) Her heart expanded at the thought of Adam.
How he had changed from the night she had met him. He'd been so witless she never would have thought him a capable man. But sober, he exuded intelligence and leadership. One quality that endeared him to her the most had been present on the night they met and had only strengthened since: his kindness.
Even that first night, so drunk he could hardly find his way home, he'd been compassionate toward her, a strange young woman lugging a portmanteau in the rain.
Her thoughts flitted to what she would wear today. She wanted to look so pretty he would forget that wretched Maria.
Therese entered her sunlit chamber, this time carrying a soft yellow morning dress. "Has madame finished her chocolate?"
Emma nodded, set her tray aside, and leapt from the bed. "I wish for you to make me lovely. I must dazzle my husband."
* * *
&nbs
p; "Mr. Wycliff," Adam said, "my wife and I shall need a list of all those employed in Mr. Hastings' household."
"It won't take me a moment to get you that information. Is there anything else I can procure for you?"
Adam felt like asking him to throw out the bogus will, but he had confidence the truth would prevail. "That will be quite enough."
A few minutes later, a neat list of Simon Hastings' domestic staff was handed to him.
Wycliff cleared his throat. "I am sure you are aware that your own solicitor, Mr. Emmott, has met with me?"
"Yes, of course."
Wycliff's gaze shifted to Emma. "Rest assured, Mrs. Birmingham, your uncle's property will not be handed over to anyone until this situation is resolved."
"Thank you, Mr. Wycliff."
They left the solicitor's chambers, and once they were in the coach, she turned to Adam. "I didn't know you were going to ask for those names. What is the purpose? Are we going to try to interview each of them?"
He shook his head. "I was looking for the names Jonathan Booker and Sydney Wolf."
"The witnesses to Uncle's will."
"Wouldn't it have been the most natural thing for your uncle to have his servants act as witnesses?"
"Indeed it would."
"He didn't. None of the servants bear those names."
"Oh, dear."
"By the way, I've indirectly placed a large order for Ceylon Tea."
"To see James Ashburnham's handwriting?"
He nodded.
"You used your own name?"
"No. The order was actually placed by one of the businesses I own."
"You own other businesses beside the bank?"
"I'm one of the shareholders in a company that acquires choice properties. I like owning land. We like owning land. My brothers are also shareholders."
She giggled. "I daresay none of the Birminghams will have to buy tea anytime during the next year." They had ordered half a dozen cases.
Their coach turned onto The Strand, where it was going to be difficult to progress because of all the conveyances making their way along one of the Capital's busiest streets. From his window, the passing vehicles varied from a cart piled high with potatoes to an aggressive hackney driver trying to weave in and out of the snarl, various tilburies and phaetons, and a very long cart transporting an enormous slab of Sienna marble.
"Would you mind terribly if we didn't go to the museum today?" she asked.
He turned to her, a puzzled look on his face. "But I thought it was you who wanted to see it."
"Oh, I do very much.
"Then?"
Her pale brown eyebrows lowered, she looked deep in contemplation. She exhaled. "You said we were to share everything."
"Yes."
"I think my uncle may have been murdered."
Murder was such a vile thing. He'd never personally known a person who had been murdered, never even thought of such a thing touching him personally. It had never crossed his mind that Simon Hastings could have been murdered, but now that she had put voice to it, he realized her suspicion had merit.
Those who knew Hastings kept commenting on how the man had been in his prime. And five-and-fifty wasn't that old. No one had heard of Hastings having been sick. One didn't just suddenly become ill and die immediately. Even those gravely ill, in his experience, lingered for a good while before dying.
How in the blazes was it that his wife, so young and so innocent in the ways of the world, could have possibly come to such a realization? He slowly turned to her, once more seeing her with new eyes. He no longer thought of her as a lost puppy dog. She was most definitely a woman. A very lovely woman now that her French maid was arranging her hair so elegantly. And she was clever, far more clever than he'd originally thought. "Why do you say that?"
"I believe Uncle Simon was poisoned, and I believe the person who changed the will is the one responsible for his death."
"What makes you believe he was poisoned?"
"Several things. First, the fact that he'd not been sick. The fact he . . . vomited. I've read about persons who are poisoned. They always lose the contents of their stomach before keeling over, dead."
He nodded. "That's true. Any other reason?"
"Yes, actually. That day when you found the name of Uncle's solicitor in his library, I was poking about the room, looking for things that would tell me about my uncle. I never for a moment imagined he'd been murdered. I thought at the time it was perfectly natural that one of his age could just die, but I was being immature. I now realize that he must have been in good physical condition."
"I agree, from what I've been told."
"In his library I was able, I think, to ascertain the chair where my uncle always sat. The cushion on it was worn almost flat. The table beside it had rings from glasses that had been set there over the years, but no glass sat there.
"However, there was a glass at the chair opposite, the one a guest would have sat in. I believe that's where the murderer, having come as a friend, sat. I believe he somehow put poison in Uncle's glass, watched him die, then cleaned up the poison glass before leaving."
"And the murderer made sure to come on a night when all the servants were off."
"That was vital for his success. He made the single mistake of forgetting to remove his own glass. Were it not for that glass—so far away from Uncle's chair that I knew it couldn't be his—I never would have known there was a visitor, never would have grown suspicious."
"So what is our next step?" He shocked himself. He was deferring to his youthful bride.
"First, I should like to speak to his housekeeper."
"Then we'll go back home, and I'll get her address from where I put it in my library."
"No need. I remember. Mrs. Thornton. She's now employed at 151 Camden Street."
"Ah, beauty and brains. How fortunate am I."
She blushed. He'd never been with a woman who blushed. Certainly Maria, with her dark skin, did not blush. But then he realized a woman of Maria's ilk would not likely blush, even if she had been as fair as Emma.
Chapter 11
Mrs. Thornton had come down in the world. The street where the late Simon Hastings lived in the heart of Mayfair was one of the most fashionable in London. Camden Street was a proper upper middle-class neighborhood. It was the kind of place where Emmott or Wycliff would live. Perhaps a physician. More typically, men who earned their living would live here. As opposed to Mayfair where the majority of the landowners were aristocrats or those with very hefty purses.
Anyone here in Camden Town would leap at the prospect of hiring a housekeeper who'd recently been engaged in Mayfair.
Well aware of his own cultured voice, Adam told the butler at 151 Camden Street they needed a few moments of Mrs. Thornton's time regarding her last employer. Eyeing how well dressed Emma was (and Adam thought she looked exceptionally pretty), the butler asked that they step into the morning room.
They passed through a dark corridor that featured a narrow wooden staircase and came to the neatly kept morning room where the opened draperies allowed sun into the chamber. Adam and his wife sat next to each other on a dark green settee that was perfectly serviceable but modest and bit dreary.
A few moments later a neatly dressed middle-aged woman came into the chamber.
Adam stood and introduced himself. "You are Mrs. Thornton?" he asked.
"I am." Mrs. Thornton looked at Emma.
"I," Emma said, "am Simon Hastings' niece, and I should like to ask you some questions about him. Please sit."
The housekeeper sat on a wooden arm chair facing Emma. Her face went somber as she offered Emma condolences. "Your uncle was greatly looking forward to you coming. He authorized me to completely refurnish our prettiest bedchamber for you." She sighed. "I wish you could have seen it."
"I do, too," Emma said solemnly. "How I wish I could have seen my uncle, gotten to know him. I feel so cheated."
"He said you were an orphan, and he was
responsible for you."
Emma's eyes misted. "I haven't come here to talk about me. I need to know about my uncle, need to know about his . . . death. I understand my uncle spent a good deal of time in his library."
"Indeed he did, miss. He loved to read by the fire. Always in his same shabby chair. Even though he was a wealthy man, he loved that chair!"
Emma cracked a smile. "Did he, by chance, give orders that his library not be cleaned regularly?"
Mrs. Thornton folded her hands in her lap. "I wonder how you should know that! He did not want the parlor maid disturbing his books at all. The library was the only room that wasn't cleaned daily. Though cleaning was not included in my duties, I personally cleaned Mr. Hastings' library on the first day of each month. I was the only one he trusted. He kept private papers in his desk there."
"How long did you serve my uncle?
Now, Mrs. Thornton's eyes misted. "Since the day he moved into his house five-and-twenty years ago."
"I am sorry for your loss," Emma said to her. "You and my uncle must have gotten on very well, and you must have been pleased to make your home on Curzon Street with him."
"He was the kindest man. No one could ever have a finer employer. I miss him dreadfully. He did leave me a nice legacy. I plan to tuck away my earnings here on Camden Street for ten years. They should be enough to buy me a little cottage somewhere in the country. I'll have a garden for my food, and your uncle's pension to tide me over year in, year out for the rest of my life. I owe much to him."
Adam wanted to change the topic before both women got too weepy. "We have received a list of Mr. Hastings' servants," Adam said. "It appears it was a fairly small staff. A valet. One cook. Two parlor maids. A butler and housekeeper."
"Mr. Hastings lived alone. He never entertained and rarely had visitors. His eating tastes were simple, hence a single scullery worker," Mrs. Thornton said.
"Do you know men named Jonathan Booker or Sidney Wolf?" he asked.
She shook her head.
Adam blew out a breath. "Was it Mr. Hastings' custom to give all the servants the entire day and night off every Sunday?"
