by R. J. Koreto
Mrs. Blake smiled, as if to soften her message. “Please understand I’m not trying to be cruel. I really want what’s best for Gwen. Surely you can see how this works so well for her, for everyone. Life is hard for a single woman in society—yourself excepted, of course. And if she wants Miss Calvin to live here as a sort of companion, then as you see, we don’t lack room. She’ll have the life she wants, with the security she needs.”
Frances nodded. Mrs. Blake wanted Gwen to have a place in the world, and there was no getting away from the fact that Gwen was now mistress of the Eyrie. But there had to be another solution, something besides what was essentially a forced marriage.
“Do you think that Sir Calleford would’ve wished this for his only daughter?”
“What an extraordinary question. But a fair one. Yes, I do. He was a pragmatic man. In this very house I saw him solve problems that prevented wars and saved lives. You have no idea what a great man he was.”
“It must’ve been a great privilege to run a household for such a paragon.”
Mrs. Blake stared at Frances, as if to see whether she was making fun of her.
“It was. But I think we’ve strayed from the subject at hand. Can I take it, Lady Frances, that you will use your considerable influence to see that Gwen follows my plan?”
“Let us say, Mrs. Blake, that we both wish to do what is best for Gwen, now and for the rest of her life.”
It was not the answer Mrs. Blake had hoped for, but Frances saw she was gracious about it.
“Thank you for hearing me out, Lady Frances. Things will be difficult in the coming days, with Gwen still in mourning, and we can plot a course for her later on.” She stood.
“Just one more thing, Mrs. Blake, on another topic. I assumed Mr. Hardiman was a representative of the American government. Did not his embassy also ask that he be allowed to return? I’m surprised to see he’s still here.”
“I don’t know if he is a diplomat—he wasn’t one of Calleford’s friends. He was just introduced to me as Mr. Hardiman, from somewhere in upper New York state. You should ask Christopher. He’s the one who invited him.”
“He did? You mean, to the Eyrie?”
“Yes. He said he had met some Americans while conducting business in London, and could he ask them down to the Eyrie to see the great house. Christopher hardly ever asked for a favor like that, and Calleford was happy to welcome them. Anyway, they seem delighted with it—especially Miss Hardiman. Good afternoon, and I’ll see you at dinner.”
Frances knew what to do next. So an arranged marriage was not just a wandering thought, but a definite plan, at least in Mrs. Blake’s mind. Had it been in Sir Calleford’s? And that was interesting about Mr. Hardiman. Why had he been invited? The two Americans were ciphers and it was time to find out more.
A passing footman told her he had seen Mr. Blake outside, near the stables. She headed out—it was a fine day, if a little cool. If Mr. Blake was thinking of riding, today was a good day for it.
She found him inspecting the horses, in the company of a groom, and wearing solid walking clothes. Frances thought about her own male walking clothes, and wished she could be wearing them.
“Lady Frances, a pleasure to see you. Despite the tragedy, work calls, and I always made regular inspections of Sir Calleford’s stables. He didn’t ride much himself, but he cared for his horses and wouldn’t want them neglected.” He said a few words to the groom, and dismissed him.
“Of course. And I know Gwen appreciates all you do.”
“And I appreciate all you and Miss Calvin do for her. I’ve always had a soft spot for my cousin. I heard how you—and Miss Hardiman, too—were keeping her company in this difficult time.”
“You’re welcome. And I enjoyed meeting Miss Hardiman. I went to school in America, and made many American friends. Where did you meet the Hardimans?”
“A dinner party in London. I was up in the City on business, and Mr. Hardiman was there with some business contact. He had built an enormous Great Lakes shipping empire out of nothing and had become extremely wealthy. And now, with his sons largely managing the business and his wife deceased, he thought he’d take some time and see Europe with Miss Hardiman, his daughter. He and I took to each other. In fact, the three of us are going for a walking tour of the grounds. Miss Hardiman specifically asked me. And if you’d like to join us—”
“Thank you, Mr. Blake. But actually, I just wanted to ask you a question. An entirely inappropriate question. But a friend’s happiness is at stake.”
Christopher grinned. “I’ve heard of you, Lady Frances. Ask away.”
“Has your offer for Miss Hardiman’s hand been accepted?”
His jaw dropped. “Lady Frances, Mr. Hardiman is a recent friend. I hardly know Miss Hardiman, it never occurred to me—” He stopped when he saw Frances’s skeptical look and sighed. “How did you know? Did Miss Hardiman tell you?”
“No, but it made sense. You want the Eyrie. And Mr. Hardiman can buy it for you. You invited them up here—not to your house, but to the Eyrie, which I hear you’ve hardly ever done. And Miss Hardiman is obviously enchanted with the place.”
Christopher leaned his head against a post and gathered his thoughts. “Yes. And this is going to sound like a terrible mess, but hear me out.”
Yes, Miss Hardiman had come to London looking for a well-connected husband. Wealthy New York society would not open their doors to nouveau riche like the Hardimans, but in England, there were more possibilities.
“We got to know each other. I told them about my family—we have a slender connection to the aristocracy. And I told them about the Eyrie. Believe me, I meant no harm. Dear Gwen never liked this place. I had an idea that would satisfy everyone: Effie and I would marry. My mother could then retire, so to speak, back to the home she shared with my father. We’d move into the Eyrie. Effie would become lady of the manor. I’d continue to manage the estate. Uncle Calleford would stay involved in politics as he wanted. Eventually, he would go to his final reward and Effie’s dowry would buy the estate from Gwen, who could live happily in London. I know it sounds mercenary, but everyone would get what they wanted.”
“I’m afraid it rather does, Mr. Blake, but you’re right about what everyone wants. You really want this house, don’t you? Gwen has talked about how much you loved the Eyrie. There was even talk about your marrying Gwen, the heiress.”
He eyed Frances. “Is that some sort of joke, Lady Frances? Or a test? I love Gwen like a sister and would do nothing to hurt her, nor tolerate anyone else hurting her. I make no claim to sainthood, but I’d live in an estate cottage before using that girl like that. Believe me. Gwen isn’t going to get married. I know that much.”
Frances nodded. “I understand and agree with you. But from what your mother has said, however, you and Gwen would have the banns read starting next Sunday.”
He flashed that so-charming grin again. “And if your mother had had her way, Lady Frances, you’d be married to an earl or duke by now.”
Frances laughed. “Touché, Mr. Blake. Thank you for your frankness. I promise I’ll be discreet.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Does your mother know?”
“No, not even her. I expected her to cut up rough, I’m afraid. An American girl of no background, even if she had money, and her hoping I’d marry Gwen and take over the Eyrie. Anyway, we were going to wait until the diplomatic meeting was ended, and break our news to Mother and Uncle Calleford. But so far, no one knows. I haven’t even formally asked Mr. Hardiman, although I’m sure he’s put two and two together.” He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “And now look at this. If we got married now, my prospective father-in-law would buy us the Eyrie right away. Mother loves running the Eyrie—to be bundled out by what she’d call an American adventuress; I can’t imagine what she’d say. And I don’t need to be a police detective to know how bad this looks. In a horrible way, it gives me a motive.”
Frances h
ad to agree. There was no assurance that Sir Calleford would have agreed to Christopher’s idea. He could’ve lived another twenty years at least, and Effie Hardiman was not going to wait forever to move into the Eyrie. But with him gone, Gwen inherited and would be only too happy to sell the estate and return to London.
“It does look bad,” said Frances. Christopher appeared genuinely shocked. But was it that he was accused—or that he was caught?
He sighed. “Fair enough, Lady Frances. You don’t know me well. But you must’ve heard Gwen talk about me. She’ll tell you I’ve always been her friend.”
Yes, Gwen’s friend. But what about Sir Calleford’s?
“You make a good point. But if you don’t mind some advice, Mr. Blake, I’d keep your secret engagement just that—secret. Anyway, you’re fortunate in that the local man, Inspector Bedlow, seems to think an outside gang is responsible.”
“Bedlow,” said Christopher sourly. “He’s completely out of his depth. His limit is tracking down poachers.”
“Then why doesn’t your chief constable call in more experienced detectives from Scotland Yard?”
“I can see that you haven’t spent a lot of time in the country. The gentry here—and that includes the chief constable—is a tight-knit bunch. No one wants strangers from London poking their noses into county business, even when there’s a murder to solve. Things will have to get much worse for that to happen. We have influence here, especially Mother as the lady of the house, and right now the preference is to keep things local. Meanwhile, the chief constable asks all the guests to remain. I don’t know why—the police have questioned everyone.”
Because the chief constable knows that one of the guests may have committed the murder, thought Frances, even though no one wants to say it. As Christopher said, things would have to get much worse.
“Say, Lady Frances, I don’t suppose you could have a go at the chief constable the way you did at Mr. Small? If anyone can convince him, you can.” His look was so engaging in that handsome face, that Frances was inclined to think that Kestrel’s Eyrie wasn’t the only reason Effie wanted to marry him.
“It may come to that yet, Mr. Blake. Enjoy your walk—I have things to do.”
Actually, it wouldn’t come to that. She didn’t need Inspector Bedlow and she didn’t need the chief constable. She started walking back to the house, and came across Effie Hardiman.
“Why, Lady Frances, were you just out by the stables? Dad and I are going for a walk with Christopher—that is, Mr. Blake. You can join us, I’m sure. Dad will be along in a moment.”
“Thank you, but I have previous appointments. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your walk. You seem to really appreciate this house, this estate.”
“Oh, I do!” She turned, and looked at the Elizabethan masterpiece. Even from the rear, it was grand and imposing. The two women took in the house together in silence. Miss Hardiman, it was clear, was imagining herself in the great hall, presiding over a ball. But Frances just got a chill.
“Would your father do anything for you, Lady Frances? Mine would do anything for me, I know, and if you can keep a secret, just between us girls, I’m going to ask him to get me this. Miss Kestrel doesn’t seem to want it, but oh, I do.”
“What if he can’t get it for you?” asked Frances quietly.
“But of course he can,” said Miss Hardiman, as if Frances had said something silly. “He’s gotten everything he ever wanted, and if we want the Eyrie, we’ll have that too. Good day, and I’ll see you at dinner.”
She marched off to the stables. Well, thought Frances, that explained why Miss Hardiman was in no rush to leave and there were no complaints about having to stay. Her father would do anything for her. And she wanted nothing more than the Eyrie. Sir Calleford was the only possible hindrance—and now he was dead. Effie Hardiman and Phoebe Blake—two women who were both strong and strong-willed. They would both bear consideration.
CHAPTER 15
Frances found Tommie in her room.
“I encouraged Gwen to lie down again, and she’s having a good sleep, so she’ll be fresh for dinner. How did it go with Mr. Small? I bet he was horrified to see you there as a solicitor’s clerk.”
“I’m sure I created a scandal. They’ll be talking about the ‘lady clerk’ all winter. Anyway, the books were in order, as far as we could tell. There was an odd payment to Mrs. Sweet—we met her at the funeral—but maybe it was just some quiet charity. I’ll speak with her later. Meanwhile, I also had a frank talk with Mrs. Blake.”
She summarized the talk, and Tommie nodded solemnly.
“I suppose, from Mrs. Blake’s viewpoint, it would be the best thing. This house needs a mistress, and Gwen can’t . . .” she bit her lip, and couldn’t go on.
“But wait—this story has a sequel. There is a woman who very much does want to become mistress, and I think she’ll do anything to get there . . .”
Tommie cheered up as the story went on. “But that’s wonderful. Miss Hardiman will become the new Mrs. Blake and I know I speak for Gwen when I say they’re welcome to this place.”
Sweet Tommie, thought Frances. She always thinks the best of people. And I always think the worst.
“Tommie. A man was murdered here. And you’ve been threatened twice. This arrangement is much more likely to go through without Sir Calleford. And if someone thought you might have too much influence over Gwen, they might have reason to threaten you.”
“But Franny, you can’t mean Miss Hardiman would, I mean, it’s absolutely impossible . . .” She put her face in her hands. “There is so much wickedness in the world.”
Frances laid a gentle hand on her. “Tommie, I’m not accusing anyone, not yet. There’s a lot I don’t understand. There are personal and diplomatic problems all mixed together here.” She hadn’t forgotten about Mr. Mehmet. “But I have discovered some things and will discover more, I promise.” Tommie gave her a hug. “You stay strong for Gwen, and I’ll stay strong for you.”
There was a knock on the door, and Gwen came in. “I had a nice nap—and I’m glad I found both of you here. Franny, I was thinking about the Eyrie. Am I really going to be mistress here? You will help me, both of you?”
“Of course,” said Tommie. Gwen looked out the window. “There’s a view of the back lawn. Every year my father would sponsor a village fete in midsummer and have a traveling theater troupe perform. A comedy, something suitable for families. I will want to continue that, if I stay here. The villagers liked it so much—we can do that, can’t we Tommie?”
“Of course,” said Tommie.
“Ladies,” said Frances. “Here we are refreshed and at loose ends. It’s too late to pay calls, so why don’t we get a little suffrage work done? Tommie, let’s have another look at that pamphlet manuscript, and Gwen, it would be delightful if you could organize some note cards.”
Tommie instantly focused on the task at hand, and Gwen was pleased to have something to do.
In the servants’ hall, Mallow was enjoying a cup of tea with Nellie, Amy Hopp, and some of the other maids. Although many ladies and gentlemen visited the Eyrie, it couldn’t compete with the London home of the Marquess of Seaforth. Mallow impressed everyone with an account of the king’s visit, as well as visits from the prime minister, the bishop of London, and various dukes and earls.
“And at Miss Plimsoll’s Hotel, where we live, the great actress Mrs. Patrick Campbell once called on Lady Frances in her carriage, and they went out to dinner together.”
That was the most impressive of all to the other servants—the glamour and raffish reputation of the London stage. But the cook was not one of them, saying that “actresses are not respectable.”
“Lady Frances is the daughter of a marquess,” said Mallow. “Everything she does is respectable.” That settled the argument, as far as Mallow was concerned, but the cook just shook her head.
A young maid, unfamiliar to Mallow and looking a little shy, broke into the circle. “Excuse me, Miss.
Are you maid to Lady Frances Ffolkes? My name is Dolly and I was told to ask for you.”
The other servants looked on with curiosity, as Dolly and Mallow stepped into the hallway, where they could have a bit of privacy.
“You see, Miss, I work a bit part-time for Mrs. Sweet, in one of the widows’ cottages, and she’s been in her room for hours, and I think she’s sick. She won’t answer my knocks and her door is locked.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s always a bit awkward when a lady does that. But we haven’t met—why are you asking me?”
Dolly fidgeted. “Your lady called on my great-grandmother, Betsy Tanner, and she was very impressed. She said, ‘That’s a real lady, that is, Dolly. And you can tell from her dress and hair, she has a maid who knows what’s what.’ So I’d like to ask you, Miss, what to do, as you’re a guest, you see.”
Of course. If Dolly asked for help from a visiting servant, there was less chance word would get back to the butler or head housemaid that a problem had come up that she couldn’t handle.
Mallow felt pleased with herself that this young girl was asking for her advice and guidance. The cottages were a short walk away, Dolly said, and as it was still some time before she would dress Lady Frances for dinner, she could walk over with Dolly and help her solve the problem. Mallow got her cloak, and they headed over to Lavender Cottage.
“The door was unlatched, as it usually is when Mrs. Sweet is home. But the bedroom upstairs is locked.”
They walked upstairs. Mallow tried the door; it was indeed locked. She rapped sharply. “Mrs. Sweet. Are you unwell?” she called loudly. She put her ear to the door, which in this simple cottage wasn’t nearly as thick and heavy as the doors in the Eyrie. She didn’t hear a sound. She looked through the keyhole; there was no key. Mallow could only see the empty bed.
But Lady Frances had taught her a trick. She sent Dolly downstairs to get a thin knife from the kitchen. She looked confused, but did as she was told. When she returned, Mallow began working on the lock. Lady Frances knew how to do this, and once they spent an amusing afternoon practicing on their own door back in Miss Plimsoll’s. After ten minutes, Mallow was rewarded with a click.
