“May I help you, Lady Phoebe?” the girl said mildly. She made an adjustment to the wide silk band that swept her hair to the crown of her head while allowing loose spirals to dance around her face.
“Yes, I . . .” Phoebe hesitated, searching for the right words. She doubted the wisdom of blatantly questioning Zara about the Madeira cake, for that would only prompt the girl to become defensive. “I only wish to see that you’re all right. That what happened today hasn’t upset you too terribly.”
“Oh, yes.” Zara only now seemed cognizant of her inappropriate attention to her appearance. She dropped her hands to her sides and turned away from the mirror. “It was horrible. So distressing. Poor Miss Finch.”
“I’m sure you’ll miss her terribly.”
The girl’s short, rounded nose, almost certain to become downright stubby as she grew older, inched into the air. “I was her favorite. Did you know?” She went to perch on the arm of a little settee covered in tufted floral chintz. Phoebe let this statement dissipate on the slightly perfumed air, and with it a measure of Zara’s haughty confidence. The girl flashed a nervous smile. “Miss Finch liked Amelia, too, of course.”
Phoebe smiled a little and nodded. “Amelia was very fond of the headmistress. Very excited by the subjects Miss Finch added to the curriculum. I suppose you were, as well.”
A shadow crossed Zara’s face, and her lips twitched into a pout. “I suppose. Though sometimes I wondered if it was all quite necessary.”
“How so?” Phoebe strolled around the bed and sat facing Zara at the edge of the satin coverlet. “Don’t you think having an education opens up choices in one’s life?”
The girl shrugged. “If you’re someone like Jane Timmons, or even Lilyanne Mucklow. Such girls have little chance of marrying well. They may need to find employment someday.”
Zara spoke of the girls she had badgered in the kitchen. Jane, a local girl and the daughter of a sheep farmer, attended Haverleigh on a merit scholarship. Lilyanne was the daughter of an MP and inventor who had helped develop the engines that went into the Avro 504 aeroplanes during the war. That made him something of a hero, for it was said the allies could not have won the war without the Avro 504s.
“I see no reason why either girl won’t use her education to her advantage and marry happily someday. You don’t see the possibility of doing both?”
Zara’s smile held both condescension and a certain slyness. “Lady Phoebe, you and I both know what our futures hold. Marriage to wealthy, influential men. Titled men. We’ll take our places in society, and any work we do will be very much like what you did here today. Organizing charity events, sponsoring philanthropic projects, and the like.”
“I haven’t made any such decisions about my life,” Phoebe said. “Are you certain you don’t want something more?”
Zara’s expression became genuinely puzzled. “How can there be anything more than presiding over a great household and upholding the traditions of our society? That is what women of our station do. We have a responsibility to set an example and to maintain our valued institutions.”
Zara’s reply didn’t surprise Phoebe, considering what she had learned about the girl’s parents from Grams. They, like many others of their class, believed their daughter’s place was in the manor house. She wondered, had they made plans to withdraw Zara from Haverleigh due to Miss Finch’s modern ideas?
“Not everyone values those institutions as they once did,” she told the girl gently. “The war changed so very much. And many of the wealthy young men who might have become influential leaders are no longer with us. Doesn’t that make it vitally important that all members of our society, men and women, should be able to participate in the future of our nation?”
Zara came to her feet. “Good heavens, Lady Phoebe, are you a Bolshevik?”
Phoebe couldn’t help chuckling. “No, Zara, rest assured, I am for king, country, and St. George. But never mind. No one can say you aren’t a very accomplished young lady. Your efforts for today’s luncheon were beyond exemplary.” The girl dimpled prettily at the praise. “Your ideas for the invitations were lovely. And your Madeira cake . . . I know you made Miss Finch proud.”
Had Phoebe gone too far in bringing up the cake? Had it occurred to Zara that Miss Finch died immediately after ingesting the miniature confection? If it had, she showed no indication now.
“Did she enjoy it? I do hope she did. I would find it of great comfort to believe dear Miss Finch’s last moments were spent relishing the cake I made with my own two hands.”
“Then no one helped you? Not Mrs. Honeychurch or any of the other girls?” Phoebe glanced around the well-appointed room to lend a casual air to her question. Meanwhile, she held her breath.
“Indeed not. The very idea. The cake was my own creation, following Miss Finch’s favorite recipe. Do you think me incapable of following a recipe, Lady Phoebe?”
The vehemence of Zara’s protest hardly seemed in proportion to the circumstances. It wasn’t as if Phoebe had accused her of cheating on an exam, or of having another student prepare her homework for her. But perhaps today’s luncheon symbolized the very activities Zara found important, around which she would someday plan her life—the organization of society events. She wondered, though, if these were the skills on which Zara placed value, how could she have been the favorite student of a woman who wanted more for her students? Had Zara been a proficient scholar despite her apparent aversion to academics, according to Amelia?
It was possible. As Phoebe had learned over the years, intelligence could be hiding behind the dullest of facades. All the more disappointing then, if Zara never reached her potential.
“Zara, did you look at each ingredient very carefully before adding it to the cake mixture?”
The girl’s brow furrowed. Furtiveness lurked in the corners of her eyes. “Of course. What are you implying?”
Phoebe considered carefully before answering. If a mistake had been made, if indeed Zara had included rat poison or some other substance instead of sugar or nutmeg, the child would have to live the rest of her life with that burden. Even the suggestion could have a crippling effect on her future endeavors. It wouldn’t do to place that burden on Zara without irrefutable evidence to support it.
“Nothing, Zara. Never mind.” Phoebe stood, about to take her leave, when another question occurred to her. “Do you happen to remember seeing anyone hanging about the kitchen in the last two days who perhaps shouldn’t have been there?”
Zara regarded her blankly. “How should I know who belongs in the kitchen? This was my first time down there. I suppose I enjoyed baking my cake, but I don’t intend to make a habit of it.” Zara rose from her perch in a sure message of dismissal. Yes, she would make a formidable mistress of the manor someday.
Still, Phoebe lingered, studying the girl. Phoebe had attended school with a dozen or so Zara Worthingtons—girls intent on following in their mother’s footsteps. Well brought up and well taken care of, girls like Zara were pretty and vivacious in their youth. But Zara’s future showed all too plainly in lips that pouted too easily, eyebrows that lifted too readily in judgment, hands that too often fidgeted—as Zara’s now fidgeted with the pintucks down the center of her shirtwaist—rather than finding worthwhile occupation. Girls like Zara rarely made truly happy women. Phoebe had seen the evidence of it too many times to count, in friends of her parents and grandparents. And not all women were as lucky as Grams and Mama had been, marrying for love.
She had one more question for her. “Why do you dislike Lilyanne Mucklow and Jane Timmons?”
Zara blinked. It was obviously not a question she had been expecting, but it seemed to Phoebe a matter of course in thinking about unhappy people. Wasn’t denigrating someone weaker than oneself also a sign of unhappiness?
“You were unkind to both of them earlier,” she persisted.
“Was I? Well, as for Lilyanne, the careless thing did spill the fruit. Surely you don’t think she sh
ould have been praised for that.”
“An ounce of forbearance might have suited you better, don’t you think?”
Zara turned away and went to her dressing table. Leaning with her hands braced on the marble top, she regarded herself in the mirror, then shifted her gaze to Phoebe again. “Lilyanne can’t keep up with the rest of us, and I have neither the time nor the patience for anyone who can’t keep up.”
“I see. And Jane?”
“Jane is as common as the weeds in an untended flower bed, yet she thinks she’s better than everyone else. She deserves to be put in her place, to remind her of the life she’ll return to once she leaves school.” Zara pulled the silk headband from her hair. As chestnut spirals tumbled down her back, she shook her head and combed her fingers luxuriously through their length, all the while staring with narrowed eyes at Phoebe through the mirror.
CHAPTER 4
As Eva entered the infirmary, she could almost imagine the lovely music room it had once been. A corner room overlooking the gardens, its arched windows extended some twelve feet high and flooded the interior with light, while hardwood floors, a coffered ceiling, and dark-stained wainscoting softened the glare. Beyond that, all traces of the room’s former function had been stripped away. Now, a row of utilitarian, iron-framed beds, presently empty, occupied one wall of the room, along with an examining table flanked by curtained screens. Opposite them, glass-fronted cabinets held an array of vials, jars, bottles, cotton gauzes, and metal instruments whose spotless surfaces glinted brightly in the daylight.
Nurse Olivia Delacy sat at a desk in a corner off to the right of the door. A notebook lay open before her, a pot of ink at her elbow. Hunching, she dipped her pen and leaned lower to make an annotation. She obviously hadn’t noticed Eva come in.
Details about the woman Eva had missed previously now caught her notice. Beneath her tidy nurse’s kerchief, hair the color of overripe wheat appeared about as dry and brittle, the bangs a frazzled fringe lying stiffly across her forehead. An angular figure spoke of long hours on her feet with too little time for regular meals, and her hands, chapped and red, testified to habitually being plunged into strong soap, probably the solutions used to sterilize equipment and sickrooms.
Eva cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Nurse?”
The woman flinched upright. Her pen went flying, hitting the floor beyond the desk with a splatter of ink. Her hands flew to her bosom, which heaved erratically.
“I’m so sorry,” Eva blurted. “I didn’t meant to startle you. How clumsy of me.”
Nurse Delacy lifted her face in Eva’s direction, startling Eva in turn with the blatant fright lodged in the frozen features, the glazed eyes. For several seconds neither of them moved, and Eva found something in that jarring expression that turned her consternation to alarm and then cold, gaunt dread.
“N-Nurse?” she stammered. “Are you quite all right?”
The woman didn’t immediately reply, but gradually panic loosened its grip on her features. Eva’s apprehension faded as quickly as it had arisen, and for an instant she questioned her own sanity.
The nurse’s hands slid down to rest in her lap. An incongruous chuckle broke from tautly stretched lips. “I . . . was so caught up in my work. Goodness.” She paused for a breath, pushed her rolling wooden chair slightly away from the desk, and once more pressed a hand to her breastbone. “You must think me quite a goose.”
Eva stepped closer then stopped, hovering halfway between the desk and the door. “If I’m disturbing you, I’ll come back another time. I didn’t mean to interrupt, or to cause you such a fright.”
At that last word, Nurse Delacy’s tongue darted across her upper lip. “No, it’s quite all right. I was just . . .” She glanced down at her notebook, which Eva now saw contained lines and columns, with names, dates, and commentary written in a rigid, painstaking penmanship. “I was recording the time and details of Miss Finch’s passing,” she explained in a lower voice. “For the school records. We keep precise records here, you see.”
“Yes, I understand.” The same could be said about Foxwood Hall. Not a provision was used that wasn’t accounted for, not a minute of the daily schedule left to happenstance, but instead clearly mapped out well in advance. “And I understand how your employer’s death has shocked and saddened you.”
“Please, sit.” Nurse Delacy gestured toward a small, armless chair. Eva pulled it away from the wall and sat facing the nurse, who folded her hands on the desktop in a show of composure. “What may I do for you, Miss . . .”
“That’s right. We were never properly introduced. I’m Eva Huntford. I’m lady’s maid to the three Renshaw sisters. You must know Amelia.”
“Indeed I do. A lovely young lady. But all three sisters? My goodness, you certainly have your work cut out for you, don’t you, Miss Huntford?”
“No more than you, I’m sure, with all these students to look after.”
“Oh, this?” She made a general sweep at the air, as if to encompass the entirety of the school. “This is nothing compared to”—she paused and swallowed—“to working in a . . . uh . . . in a hospital. Of course, now that Miss Finch is gone . . .” She trailed off with a shrug.
At those words, Eva seized the opportunity to ease into the very topic she had come here to discuss. “Surely you don’t fear being dismissed because of what happened today.”
“In these past couple of hours, I’ve been wondering if I could have—should have—saved her. If I’d done something differently.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Until Eva had spoken with Miles Brannock, she might have agreed with the woman. If Miss Finch had been choking or suffering an attack of some kind, Nurse Delacy might indeed have been able to help her if she had arrived in the dining hall sooner. But if the headmistress had died of poison, especially a fast-acting poison such as cyanide, Nurse Delacy could not have changed the outcome.
“Perhaps you’re being too hard on yourself.” Eva might have added more, but she was too intent on gauging the nurse’s every twitch and hesitation.
“In my profession,” she said in an undertone, “one always wonders.”
“I’m sure you came as soon as Lady Amelia found you earlier.”
The nurse’s gaze darted to meet Eva’s, then fell quickly away.
“I suppose she couldn’t find you immediately,” Eva prodded, “or you would have been there sooner.”
Sharp lines formed across the dry skin of the nurse’s brow. “Are you insinuating I didn’t come quickly enough? Then you do believe Miss Finch’s death was my fault.”
“I didn’t say that. And I don’t believe it made a difference to the outcome one way or another. I only meant . . . well, I watched the woman struggle for air until the moment she died. It happened so quickly, yet seemed like forever, if you can understand what I mean.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Huntford. I understand all too well.” A shudder sent a ripple down the woman’s starched uniform. Eva waited for her to elaborate, but she remained silent. Eva could have kicked herself, for obviously her inept attempt to discover what delayed the woman’s arrival in the dining hall had put Nurse Delacy on her guard.
As in the past, Eva questioned whether she was cut out for intrigue. Yet her instincts told her she had learned more here than appearances suggested. In the dining hall earlier, she had had to shout at Nurse Delacy to prompt her to action, for the woman had seemed to freeze up at the sight of the inert Miss Finch. Couple that with her mannerisms these past few minutes, and Eva concluded the nurse either had something to hide, or was of such a nervous disposition as to potentially render her incapable of performing her job. And that concerned Eva, whether or not the nurse had anything to do with Miss Finch’s death.
* * *
Dinner seemed interminable that evening. The courses crept by at a snail’s pace, especially since Phoebe’s appetite had failed to accompany her to the table. How much longer before she might retreat upstairs and finally question
her sister? At long last, Grams signaled to Giles and said, “We’ll take our coffee in the library.”
“Very good, my lady.”
When the butler Phoebe had known all her life faltered and merely frowned in puzzlement as to how to proceed, Vernon, the head footman, sidled up behind his shoulder and murmured in his ear, “I’ll send below for coffee, sir, while you help the countess up from her chair.”
Had everyone else at the table overheard? They all appeared absorbed in placing their napkins just so beside their plates. Poor Giles had been showing sure signs of aging in recent months. The family had reached a silent agreement not to notice, while Vernon had taken on the task of issuing gentle reminders whenever they were needed. This way, an inevitable unpleasantness—that of Giles having to retire—could be forestalled as long as possible.
But Phoebe was still not free, for in the library Grampapa suggested a game of chess. With her brother, Fox, away at Eton, the role of chess opponent fell to Phoebe. Julia hadn’t the patience for the game, and Amelia lacked the cunning to sacrifice “poor, innocent pawns” for the greater good.
Amelia, apparently, had been equally as eager to speak with Phoebe, for when Phoebe finally ascended the stairs, arrived at her sister’s door, and prepared to knock, Amelia opened it, reached out, seized Phoebe’s wrist, and pulled her inside. Amelia quickly closed the door behind them. “I thought you’d never come up. Eva and I have been waiting an age.”
“You only came up yourself a few minutes ago.” Phoebe shook her head with a wry laugh.
Eva stood before Amelia’s dollhouse, a beloved item she refused to give up or have relegated to the nursery with all the other forgotten toys. The house was a miniature of Foxwood Hall, complete with turret, mullioned windows, and furniture that mirrored many of the pieces to be found in the real house, including Amelia’s painted Italian bedroom set. Eva placed a tiny rose-brocade settee back into the Rosalind Sitting Room, identical to the real one down the hall, and came toward them with her hands folded primly at her waist.
A Pinch of Poison Page 5
