“I wouldn’t wish to impose. The walk will be good for me and it’s a lovely day.” While that had been true up until now, the weather decided to betray Eva with a burst of wind that sent clouds scuttling to block the sun.
“Nonsense.” This from Lady Phoebe. Her tone brooked no debate. “Eva, go with the constable. I’ll see you at home.”
* * *
By the time Phoebe drew the Vauxhall up beside the front door, a light rain had begun to fall. “It’s a good thing the constable gave Eva a ride,” she said to Owen. She drew her collar up and tugged her hat brim down. “Shall we make a run for it?”
The front door had already opened and Mr. Giles stood waiting for them. A footman strode out and opened the motorcar door for Phoebe. Owen let himself out the other side, and as they entered the house, the footman slid behind the steering wheel and set out for the carriage house, used to house the family’s variety of vehicles, from Grams’s carriage to Grampapa’s Rolls-Royce.
Mr. Giles had barely collected Phoebe’s and Owen’s hats and overcoats when Julia came sprinting down the wide staircase with a scowl plastered across her face.
“High time you got back. I trust you brought Eva with you, or have you—” Her expression altered in an instant. “Owen, I didn’t see you there.”
“Hello, Julia.” Owen crossed the hall with his hand extended. It grated on Phoebe no end that when Julia placed her own hand in his, Owen didn’t merely shake it but brought it to his lips. Julia simpered like a debutante. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”
“And you, Owen, though I really must scold you.” Julia’s hand remained resting on his though he’d already loosened his hold.
Mr. Giles put the coats in the cloakroom and slipped discreetly away.
“What has kept you away so long? I’d all but given up hope that we would ever see you again.” Julia fluttered her eyelashes and smiled as only Julia could—like the sun bursting through clouds to banish the rain. Phoebe suppressed a groan.
“I’ve been dirtying my hands in business again,” he said, smiling broadly, “but you don’t want to hear about that.”
“Goodness, no, you’re quite right. But it is good to see you looking so well. So robust. Managing those nasty mills of yours obviously agrees with you, though one cannot help but wonder why.” She wrinkled the perfect slope of her nose.
Owen laughed as though Julia had just made the funniest observation. “Such places are certainly not made for the likes of you.” He took both her hands and held her arms out. “You’re looking splendid as always.”
Her smile faded. “I would be, if our lady’s maid were ever anywhere to be found when she’s needed.” She fingered the golden twist she had obviously fashioned for herself that morning, then dropped her hand and apparently dismissed the subject. “My grandfather is in the library. I know he’d love to see you. Grams is still in the Petite Salon with our young charges from the school.”
“Are you coming?” He held out his hand to her again.
“You go on in. I’ll be right behind you. I just need a word with my sister first.” The way Julia’s mouth hardened when she said my sister provided Phoebe with ample warning of what was coming. The moment Owen disappeared across the hall and into the library, Julia bore down on her. Phoebe’s stomach tightened as she prepared to do battle.
CHAPTER 12
“What do you suppose you’re about,” Julia said sharply, “monopolizing Eva’s time the way you’ve been doing? Bad enough Grams has her teaching those silly chits, but there’s nothing I can do about that. There is plenty I can do about you. I’m fed up with it. Grams is going to hear about this the moment lessons are over for the day.”
Phoebe let out a weary sigh. “Julia, can’t you for once see past your own petty concerns? Eva and I have been—” She didn’t finish. She couldn’t come right out and tell Julia that she and Eva were helping with a murder investigation—especially when that investigation had been called off by the chief inspector. “We have been busy with the RCVF, and now the school itself, which has suffered a terrible tragedy, or had you forgotten?”
“I remember quite well, thank you. And if you wish to involve yourself in every do-gooder cause you can think of, it’s fine with me. But Eva was hired to perform a specific job in this house, and you are preventing her from doing it. Perhaps you enjoy looking like a commonplace frump—obviously you do—but I believe in upholding the integrity of our family. It is not enough to be of a noble house, one must look and act the part if we are to maintain our positions in society.”
A commonplace frump. Phoebe heard little after that phrase, for Julia’s unkind assessment sent the blood rushing in her ears. She couldn’t help stealing a glance down at herself. She could boast neither Julia’s height nor her graceful slenderness, nor had she been blessed with Julia’s deep blue eyes and bright golden hair. No, an intrusion of green turned Phoebe’s eyes a decidedly ordinary hazel, and just enough red had infiltrated her hair to prevent her from being a fashionable blonde. Those things she could do nothing about. But she had dressed hurriedly this morning and without Eva’s help, choosing a simple tea-length skirt, lace-up boots, and a cream shirtwaist. After morning lessons she had tossed on her spring coat and rushed out the door to collect Eva around back at the service entrance for their meeting with Constable Brannock.
She hadn’t expected Owen Seabright to be at that meeting as well. If she had, would she have taken more care with her morning preparations? She wished she could toss her head and deny the very notion of being so vain. If the truth were told, even upon discovering Owen at the cottage, she hadn’t given her appearance a second thought. But thanks to Julia, she now saw herself quite clearly in Owen’s eyes.
Frump. A little ball of misery gathered at the core of her being. Through that awful roaring in her ears, words penetrated—ugly, hurtful words that held enough truth to render Phoebe unable to deny them. Julia was still talking, and though much of what she said passed through Phoebe unheard, enough found their mark with stinging accuracy.
Why did Julia loathe her so? What had Phoebe ever done to deserve such disdain? She could think of nothing to excuse her sister’s behavior.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she heard herself saying. “Perhaps I have none of your poise or style, nor can I ever hope to gain the admiration of everyone around me the way you do.” She couldn’t let Julia see the extent of her distress. Her sister was nothing if not astute, and she would likely guess the reason why.
Owen.
She pulled herself up straighter, blinked her eyes clear, and pressed her face closer to Julia’s. She didn’t know where her next words originated, or that they had even existed inside her, but they tumbled forth, strong and distinct. “But for all that, Julia, I still prefer to be myself, rather than be you or like you. I’d rather die an old maid who has done some good in the world, than be someone who chose merely to uphold the integrity of her social position.”
Pivoting, she blindly made her way across the hall and to the library. She might have preferred the privacy of her bedroom, but retreating upstairs would have meant Julia had won this round. Phoebe would rather endure the scrutiny of a thousand curious gazes than allow Julia the satisfaction of knowing she had undermined her confidence.
On the library threshold, she pulled up abruptly. Not two, but three men presently occupied the grouping of chairs by the hearth. Grampapa had his feet up on his favorite leather hassock, reminding her of his recent complaint of swollen ankles. Dearest Grampapa seemed to have arrived at an age when a man no longer enjoyed robust good health, and that worried her greatly, especially since he typically proclaimed, “We mustn’t bother Dr. Reynolds with anything so trivial.”
Owen perched in an armchair, his body coiled as if ready to spring into action if needed. He noticed Phoebe, smiled, and stood. The third man, Mr. Amstead, sat in the wing chair with one leg crossed. He uncrossed them and also came to his feet.
Before she could ente
r or greet the vicar properly, a voice behind her said, “Phoebe, you’re home. Good.” Grams placed a hand on her shoulder and nudged her into the room. “I believe you’ll be interested in what the vicar has come to discuss.”
Grams crossed in front of her to take possession of the other armchair across the small Pembroke table from Owen’s. “Now then, Mr. Amstead, what is this about Miss Sedgewick not informing parents that the school will reopen?”
Still shaken from her confrontation with Julia, Phoebe remained standing, hovering over the little group. This news came as a surprise, for she had believed Miss Sedgewick eager to have the students return and restore a sense of normalcy to Haverleigh. Odd, but she found herself siding with the assistant headmistress. She wasn’t satisfied with the conclusion the chief inspector had reached and didn’t think it would be prudent to return the girls to school too soon.
Mr. Amstead and Owen resumed their seats, and the elder man said, “Lady Wroxly, Miss Sedgewick is expressing concerns about reopening the school before a permanent headmistress has been named.”
“That’s not at all what she said the other day.” Grams’s brow furrowed. “She’s always seemed like an agreeable young lady. Why is she suddenly being difficult?”
“I don’t believe Miss Sedgewick means to be difficult, Lady Wroxly,” the vicar returned. “With the school having been thrown into such disarray, she wishes to avoid any further uncertainties with the potential to disrupt the girls’ lives again.”
Such as a second murder? Phoebe schooled her features not to give away her thoughts. “It is an odd change of heart,” she observed instead. “Only the other day Miss Sedgewick seemed eager to reopen the school.” Grams nodded in agreement.
“That’s true, Lady Phoebe,” the vicar replied, “but perhaps the incident with the kitchen maid distracted her from her true sentiments.”
With a little grunt, Grampapa shifted his feet to a more comfortable position on the hassock. “Do you agree with her, Vicar, that the school shouldn’t be reopened?”
“Generally speaking, no, my lord.” The man steepled his hands beneath his chin. “I understand her hesitancy, but I feel keeping the school closed and the students scattered will be more disruptive than bringing them back before the headmistress position is resolved.”
“Not that we don’t enjoy having the young ladies with us,” Grampapa said with a fond twinkle in his eye. “Ah, I enjoy seeing their eager, youthful faces. They are welcome for as long as needed.”
“The governing body hasn’t yet had time to post an advertisement for the position.” Grams paused as Vernon, the head footman, entered with the tea tray. Grams gestured for him to set it down on the sofa table, then she herself leaned forward to begin pouring. “And once that is done, it will take time to sort through the applicants. It could take weeks. Surely Miss Sedgewick doesn’t propose keeping the school closed these next several weeks?” She glanced up at the vicar. “One lump or two?”
“Do you suppose her hesitancy has to do with her wanting the position?” Phoebe mused aloud. She couldn’t be sure if Grams’s disapproving look was aimed at her, or at Miss Sedgewick’s possible machinations. Grampapa, however, appeared to give the notion serious consideration.
He said, “If that were the case, wouldn’t it better suit her purpose to reopen the school and show the governing body how adept she is at running things?”
“Not if she hopes to compel the governing board to make a speedy decision in her favor,” Owen said. He accepted a teacup from Grams’s outstretched hand.
Phoebe nodded her agreement and marveled that he had spoken her exact thoughts aloud. “Keeping the school closed would encourage parents to put pressure on the governing board to find the swiftest and most convenient solution. In short, Miss Sedgewick.”
“Well, if that’s her game, I highly doubt it will work.” Grams sat back in her chair and pensively stirred her tea. “The governing body will not be manipulated. Besides, several of us have discussed the matter. She is rather too young for such a position. It would be highly irregular.”
“She might prove a more satisfactory headmistress than Miss Finch.” The vicar sighed. “I do not mean to speak ill of the deceased, but there were many who disapproved of her, well, shall we call them progressive ideas. Filling the students’ heads with stuff and nonsense they’ll never need in life. So impractical, not to mention the unnecessary cost. If you ask me, Miss Sedgewick, though young, may be the more sensible of the two.”
Phoebe couldn’t help herself. “Mr. Amstead, excuse me for speaking out, but times are quickly changing and women’s education must change accordingly. Miss Finch understood this and—”
“Eh hem. Phoebe, that will be enough.”
“I’m sorry, Grams, but—”
“My dear.” Grampapa’s soft voice did what Grams’s stern warning failed to accomplish. Any further argument stuck in Phoebe’s throat. Grampapa nodded at her, his mouth pinched but his eyes kindly . . . ever patient. He held his hand out to her and she went to stand beside his chair.
She sensed Owen’s gaze upon her, and a waft of heat enveloped her face. But when she braved a glance in his direction, he showed her a small smile and—if she weren’t mistaken—a nod of admiration. Of agreement. She raised her chin, confident in her opinion even if her grandparents believed she’d spoken out of turn.
Grams continued as if their little interlude hadn’t happened. “While I agree some of Miss Finch’s ideas bordered on outlandish, I think what the school needs is a happy medium, someone who can please everyone.” She gazed up at Phoebe, all trace of censure gone. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Phoebe knew she had been forgiven, and told a small lie to stay in Grams’s good graces. “I believe that is sensible.”
“Perhaps a married woman would suit,” the vicar said. “Such a headmistress would better understand the values we wish to instill in our young ladies. For it does occur to me that a woman who has lived all her life outside the state of matrimony can have little idea of the virtues and rewards of being a wife.”
Grams’s mouth turned down at the corners. “A married woman who works? I should hardly think so. What kind of wife leaves her family to their own resources?”
Another protest lodged in Phoebe’s throat. Could a woman not be a devoted wife and mother and still pursue a career of her own? Must she choose between one or the other with never a compromise in sight?
She swallowed and said nothing.
“Ah, yes, very true, my lady. A widow, then,” Mr. Amstead suggested.
Grams tilted her head and considered a moment. “A widow may do nicely. As long as we are agreed that Miss Sedgewick, though a viable candidate for headmistress at some future date, is not yet ready for the role. Why, she might wish to marry someday. She’s far too attractive to be considered wholly on the shelf.”
“Agreed then, my lady. But how do you propose we handle the situation? For it is quite apparent that she would like the job.” Mr. Amstead raised his cup, but set it back in its saucer without drinking. “It’s a rather sticky situation, if you ask me. We don’t wish to upset Miss Sedgewick, for we might end up losing her as well. And wouldn’t we be in a pickle then?”
Grams tilted her chin. “Mr. Amstead, you are the head of the governing body. What do you propose we do?”
The man shifted as if his chair had suddenly become uncomfortable. He tugged at his collar. It was clear he would rather defer to Grams’s authority. Was he uncomfortable in his role on the governing body? Perhaps afraid of offending one of Haverleigh’s more illustrious patrons? Grams waited for his reply, one eyebrow arcing in expectation.
“She must be spoken to,” he said. “I shall do so this very afternoon, my lady.”
Grams considered. “No, tomorrow morning will be soon enough. I shall come as well, and any others of the governing body who are available.”
The vicar’s relief was palpable.
“Would you like me to go with you, G
rams?” Phoebe offered.
Her grandmother studied her with one of those assessing gazes that once made Phoebe squirm—which still had the power to do so, upon occasion. “You may come along if you wish,” she said at length. “But it seems you’ve been tossing my name about rather liberally of late. If my name is to retain its power, I shall have to make an actual appearance every now and again, shan’t I?”
Phoebe nodded and fought not to squirm.
* * *
“I’ve a good mind to keep driving until you agree to have dinner with me.”
Eva watched Foxwood Hall fill the windscreen as they drew closer. Would he pass the house and keep going? Injecting mirth she didn’t feel into her voice, she asked, “Do you intend to kidnap me, Constable?”
“Miles.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke again. “We’re alone, and needn’t stand on ceremony.” He slowed the vehicle. “It’s not as if I’m planning to take you to a nightclub in Piccadilly. All I’m asking is a friendly supper at the Amberley Arms in Cheltenham. It’s quite respectable, I assure you, and I’ll have you back at a decent hour.”
She drew a deep breath to steel herself. “Miles, I’m flattered. Truly. But perhaps you don’t understand how much I am needed at Foxwood these days. Not only do I have my usual three ladies to look after, but three more besides now that the school is closed.”
“All the more reason to get that school open again.”
“Yes, well. There is nothing I can do about that.” She wondered, would she free up time to spend with him if she could? She stole a peek at him from beneath her lashes. An Irishman through and through, he possessed enough charm and cheekiness to worm his way into the heart of any woman. Why her? Why not someone without obligations holding her to one place?
“I think you use those young ladies of yours as an excuse.”
His observation startled her. Was he right?
“I think the idea of becoming close to anyone—especially me—frightens you.”
A Pinch of Poison Page 16
