A Pinch of Poison

by Alyssa Maxwell

  She studied him again. Intently. And skewed her lips as she shook her head. “You are insufferably impertinent.”

  “’Tis my privilege as an Irishman.”

  “For now at least, I must return to work,” she said. They arrived at the fork where the road split, one way continuing to the service entrance of the house, the other to the village road. “You can drop me here, thank you.”

  They came to a stop and as she fumbled with the latch, he reached across her. His sleeve brushed her middle and she flinched, imagining a flesh to flesh spark though they each wore layers of clothing.

  He reached the latch and opened her door. At the same time, his sleeve rode up, revealing a wristwatch with an unusually large dial with a faint glow and prominent numbers. The piece disappeared into his sleeve again as he drew his arm away and placed his hand back on the steering wheel.

  “Is that an aviator’s watch?” she asked.

  His jaw tightened. “It is.”

  The terse answer rendered her momentarily speechless. “You’re a pilot?”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  She yearned to ask him more, and yet didn’t dare, for every line and plane of his face forbade it. Had she been wrong about him? Initially, she had believed he hadn’t fought in the Great War. Or had he been a pilot before the war and an accident—a crash—rendered him incapable of fighting? But then, how could he be a policeman?

  No, she returned to her previous assumption. He hadn’t fought in the war. He was simply too whole, too healthy, too self-assured.

  Lord Owen was self-assured, and though he had taken a bullet to the shoulder, on the surface he seemed perfectly fit. She glanced over again at Miles. She simply didn’t know. Whatever his past, he seemed unwilling to discuss it with her. And that made her wary.

  “Good day, then,” he said. Though he tried to sound casual, she heard the tension in his voice.

  “Good day.” She tried to smile. She climbed out, holding her skirts as she did so to prevent them riding up her shins. Before she shut the door behind her, he leaned across the seat to peer up at her.

  “Just so you know, I won’t be giving up.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows, and as he drove away, one hand waved at her from his open side window. Such a puzzling man.

  Back at the house, she removed her coat and hat and headed for the valet’s service room, where a mound of ironing awaited her, along with alterations to two of Amelia’s day dresses and one of Julia’s gowns. Yet, she hadn’t time to plug the electric iron into the wire that hung from its ceiling socket before the housekeeper rounded the doorway in a swirl of black serge that swept the floor.

  Mrs. Sanders had been at Foxwood nearly as long as Mr. Giles, and though most of the staff showed a healthy fear of her, Eva liked the woman. She maintained order with the precision of fine clockwork and treated everyone fairly, if sometimes sternly. Still, Eva understood the quietly murmured nickname of “Old Ironheart,” not only reflecting the woman’s iron fist in running the house and scheduling duties, but also her wiry hair and gray eyes.

  “It’s about time you got back,” the woman said in lieu of a proper greeting.

  Eva blinked. As an upper servant, her duties weren’t overseen by the housekeeper, and she didn’t typically speak to Eva in such a tone. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sanders. Is there a problem?”

  “I’ll say there is. Lady Julia has rung for you several times this afternoon and sent a note down saying you are to go up to her the very moment you set foot back in the house.”

  Oh, dear. She set the still-cold iron on its trivet. “Thank you, Mrs. Sanders. I’ll go up straightaway.”

  As she passed the woman on her way out, Mrs. Sanders placed a hand on her shoulder. “Good luck. I only hope you’ve got a good excuse.”

  “Me, too.”

  She ran up the back staircase in record time, her boots raising a staccato that echoed against the tiled walls. Once through the door into the family’s bedroom wing, she slowed her steps on the fine wool runner. Softly, she tapped on Lady Julia’s door.

  “Yes, come in.”

  Eva swallowed and opened the door. “My lady, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “My heavens, there you are.” Eva braced for a scolding but Lady Julia continued in an even tone. “It’s quite all right, Eva, I don’t blame you.”

  Her relief was short-lived. Julia stood in the doorway of her dressing room. Behind her, bright colors spilled from open drawers. The armoire doors gaped as well, the usually well-ordered contents pushed willy-nilly as if ransacked by thieves. Eva bit back a sigh of dismay. Worth, Erté, Redfern, Poiret—all crushed one against another. A tedious afternoon of ironing and steaming precious fabrics stretched before her.

  “This is Phoebe’s fault.” Lady Julia went on in the same calm tone that belied the spark in her eye. “She seems to believe you work exclusively for her and I intend to speak to my grandparents about it. But in the meantime . . .” She gestured for Eva to come in and shut the door, which she did without a word before moving into the dressing room.

  She hadn’t overestimated the mayhem Lady Julia had wreaked, and now she didn’t underestimate the time and effort it would take to put things to rights.

  In the middle of the havoc, the golden-haired Lady Julia stood as composed as an angel. “We’re expecting company for dinner tonight. I need you to help me find the perfect dress and jewelry, and then work your very best magic on my hair. Perhaps a bit of powder and rouge, too. I want to look especially beautiful tonight. Nothing ordinary will do. I wish to astonish.”

  That little speech rendered Eva momentarily mute. Then she lowered her eyebrows and nodded. “There is a young man you wish to impress.” The new Lord Allerton perhaps? “He must be very special, my lady.”

  “Special? You don’t understand at all. It’s Wallace Bagot coming for another try, and this time I intend showing him I’m so far out of his realm he could never hope to snare me. The very idea.” She tossed her head and laughed. “Come, Eva. Let’s turn me into a jewel so sharply faceted poor Wally Bagot will slice his fingers clean off if he dares try to touch me.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Phoebe left Eva at home the next day when she and Grams set out for Haverleigh. She would have done so even if Julia hadn’t cornered her again last night after poor Wally Bagot left Foxwood in a dither. Phoebe had known the moment Julia entered the library before dinner what her game was. She had rarely seen her elder sister looking so beautiful or so aloof. Like a china doll of such intricate design, it promises to shatter at the slightest tough.

  Wally Bagot wouldn’t likely be back anytime soon.

  Julia must have been feeling especially triumphant, because later, when Phoebe encountered her upstairs, she issued demands like a monarch who had never been told no. Phoebe allowed her to rant but listened very little, and when Julia finally felt silent with that haughty slant to her lips, Phoebe had told her in the simplest terms possible that she’d had no intention of asking Eva to accompany her away from home today.

  Dearest Eva. Because of Phoebe her tasks had piled up, but she never uttered a word of complaint.

  “You’re quiet this morning.” Grams’s observation snapped her out of her musings. The carriage jostled along the cobbles of Little Barlow’s High Street. Phoebe glanced out her window and spied Myron Henderson sweeping the walkway in front of his haberdashery. His movements were stiff and labored, and he leaned on the broom as much as he used it to sweep away dust and fallen leaves. Mr. Henderson had lost his leg from the knee down in the war, and wore a prosthetic fashioned of heavy wood and steel. The contraption kept him upright but made walking a precarious endeavor. He was yet another soul who never complained, but went about his daily business with a grace Phoebe could only hope to someday achieve.

  “Contemplating my shortcomings,” she replied.

  For a moment Grams said nothing. Was she, too, preoccupied with her granddaughter’s deficiencies? “You remind me of me
, when I was your age,” she said at length.

  Phoebe lifted her chin. “What—” She broke off, having been about to ask an impertinent question if ever there was one. But what could have changed the Countess of Wroxly from a spirited young woman to the staunch traditionalist sitting beside her today? Surely not Grampapa. Phoebe couldn’t imagine dearest Grampapa ever leveling a single word of criticism at Grams. He was far too kind and amiable for that.

  Grams smiled vaguely. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I was once in the habit of speaking when I shouldn’t and believing things I knew little about. I even had the audacity to correct my elders a time or two.”

  A wave of disappointment swept over Phoebe. She wished Grams could understand her and the hopes she held for the future. She looked down at her hands, and was surprised when one of Grams’s covered her own. “It’s all right, my dear. We all grow up. I did. And now I’ve grown old. Some of my patience has been lost along with my youth and I often forget that with time and experience, you’ll come to an understanding of the world just as I did.” She paused and gave Phoebe’s hands a squeeze. “I do not mean to thwart you . . . too much.”

  If a tiger had sprouted wings and took off flying, Phoebe could not have been more flabbergasted. Grams had never said such a thing to her before, never implied that her word could be taken as anything less than law. She was obviously referring to yesterday’s conversation in the library, when she had cut Phoebe’s opinions off at the root. Grams had never apologized for such a circumstance before, and Phoebe didn’t know quite how to respond. Grams saved her from having to.

  “Never mind. Suffice it to say that despite a certain hardheadedness that admittedly runs in our family, you are growing up rather nicely and I’m proud of you, even if you do sometimes want for a smidgeon of prudence.” She sighed. “I suppose such things are not in quite the same demand as previously. Only . . .” She took Phoebe’s hand firmly in her own pale one, the fingers long and slender, the skin grown delicate and papery with age. “Do not forget who your people are, and those who came before you.”

  Phoebe swallowed. This was not merely Grams apologizing for being short with her yesterday, this was Grams revealing her deepest vulnerability—her fear of a rapidly changing world where she and others like her felt less and less in control. The Countess of Wroxly desperately clung to the old traditions because they made sense to her and made her feel safe, and because, as Grams had said, she had grown old. She no longer had the capacity to change, or to change to the degree the modern world required. Phoebe must not forget that. Grams had protected her growing up, and now it was Phoebe’s turn to protect her grandmother as much as she could.

  “I won’t forget, Grams,” she promised, more solemnly than her grandmother could know. “I never would.”

  “Good.” Then, as if they had only been discussing dinner or the weather, Grams released her hand and ducked to see out the window. “We’re here, and I see by the motorcars that several of the others are here as well.”

  Inside, they met with Mr. Amstead and several other members of the Haverleigh governing body. Miss Sedgewick, clearly taken aback at the number of individuals milling outside her office, led the way to the dining hall where, as she stated, they would have ample room to discuss whatever had brought them to the school today. At the threshold, however, she and everyone else came to an awkward halt. Even Phoebe stared into the room with something akin to apprehension. The tables were bare and the floor swept clean of all signs of Miss Finch’s untimely passing, yet the walls seemed to echo with her choking gasps and the crash of falling china.

  “Goodness,” Lady Philomena Albert murmured. She raised a hand to finger the fox collar draped around the shoulders of her beige silk overcoat. “I haven’t set foot in here since . . . well, you know. Perhaps we should meet elsewhere. Veronica, what do you think?”

  Lady Stanhope, the woman to whom Lady Philomena addressed her question, traced the wide doorway with her gaze as if sizing up a threat. “I think it will be all right, Philomena.”

  She didn’t sound very certain. When no one moved, Grams pushed past Mr. Amstead and crossed the threshold. She turned about to face the others. “We’re here to discuss the reopening of the school. That means our students shall be using this room again. How can we send them in if we ourselves are afraid to enter?”

  She obviously didn’t expect an answer, but stalked in her floor-sweeping black silk to a table at the very center of the room. Phoebe didn’t hesitate to follow. The clatter of footsteps proceeded in her wake. When everyone had taken their seats, Grams prodded the vicar.

  “Reverend? Perhaps you’d care to begin. I’m sure Miss Sedgewick is curious about why we wished to meet with her today.”

  “Oh, I, uh . . . Yes, well.” He cleared his throat, and Phoebe wondered if he had this much trouble starting his Sunday sermons. He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his brow. Phoebe’s patience began to slip away. Besides ladies Philomena and Stanhope, three others from the governing body trained expectant gazes on him. “We are concerned about the amount of time the school has been closed,” he said, “and how much longer it will remain closed. You have expressed a wish to wait until a new headmistress is chosen.”

  “Why, yes, that is correct.” Miss Sedgewick sat stiffly upright, her shoulders back and her chin level. Her spine remained several inches away from the back of her chair. “As I have said, bringing in a new headmistress is likely to cause upheaval in the school’s routine. The students have gotten used to Miss Finch’s ways, such as they were. A new headmistress will bring with her new methods of doing things.”

  The gibe about Miss Finch wasn’t lost on Phoebe. She narrowed her eyes on the woman as she continued.

  “Why bring the girls back now? Wouldn’t it be best for the governing body to make its decision, and only then resume studies according to whatever guidelines the new headmistress cares to establish?”

  “There is sense in that,” Lady Stanhope said.

  Lady Philomena scoffed. “Not if it means not reopening the school before the summer holidays. Think how far behind the girls would be then.” A murmur rose as the ladies began speaking at once, each with a differing opinion.

  The vicar held up his hands. “Miss Sedgewick, is there another reason for your hesitation in reopening the school?”

  Her dark eyebrows twitched. Beyond that, she revealed little of her thoughts. “One cannot be too careful with young ladies.”

  “Yes, that is true.” Lady Stanhope sent a placating smile at Miss Sedgewick. It seemed clear to Phoebe with whom the woman sided. “My own Pricilla is a most sensitive girl. She has had several nightmares since I brought her home, and she has developed the distressing habit of staring down at her food until I can persuade her she need not fear its being tainted. So yes, I agree we mustn’t act hastily. We have engaged a tutor for her in the meantime. I see no reason why the other students should not have tutors.”

  Phoebe bit back a retort. Not every student’s family could afford a tutor. Jane Timmons would go without lessons were she not a guest at Foxwood Hall. But she saw no reason in arguing that point. Though she wholeheartedly disagreed with Miss Sedgewick’s reasons for keeping the school closed, she did in fact side with the woman on the main point. Until all aspects of Miss Finch’s death were resolved, it made no sense to risk the students’ welfare by bringing them back to Haverleigh.

  Dared she express that opinion? She felt fairly certain Grams had brought her along so she might observe firsthand the workings of the governing body, and not so she could weigh in herself. These women, and the vicar, too, would think her hopelessly impertinent. Perhaps she should wait, then, and see what conclusion they reached....

  The ringing of a telephone echoed from the corridor, and moments later the French mistress entered the dining room. “Miss Sedgewick, a call for you. It’s a student’s mother and she says it’s urgent.”

  Miss Sedgewick let out a long-suffering s
igh and pushed back her chair. “It is always urgent. If you will excuse me, I shall return just as soon as I can.”

  Mr. Amstead came to his feet as well. He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a briar and tortoiseshell pipe. “I think I’ll step out for a few moments, ladies.”

  They waved him on and continued their debate. Lady Philomena remained adamant that the girls must return to their lessons. Lady Stanhope, on the other hand, staunchly defended Miss Sedgewick’s view that a new headmistress must first be found. Was she in favor of Miss Sedgewick taking on the role?

  Phoebe perused the woman’s attire and for the first time noticed the similarity in size between her and Miss Sedgewick. Could Lady Stanhope be supplying Miss Sedgewick with clothing? It would explain how an assistant headmistress came by such costly items, but certainly raised a new question of why.

  Phoebe ran through what she knew about Lady Stanhope, wife of Sir Raymond Stanhope, a wealthy baronet and banker from London. Their daughter, Pricilla, was younger than Amelia, one of the secondary school girls of respectable academic aptitude but certainly no prodigy. Phoebe suddenly remembered hearing rumors when Pricilla first entered Haverleigh that her father had married beneath him. Well, that could mean any number of things, from Lady Stanhope having been in his employ to her having hailed from the middle class. In her experience, where a rush to judgment marked the norm, it was rare that “marrying beneath one’s station” meant anything truly sordid. And looking at Lady Stanhope with her perfect coif and impeccable tailoring, it was near to impossible to imagine her in what could be called sordid circumstances. She certainly didn’t strike Phoebe as a former chorus girl, and it was a rare parlor maid indeed who could attain Lady Stanhope’s level of refinement.

  But perhaps Phoebe should find out more....

  “Someone help me—get him off of me!” The shout rocketed through the open windows overlooking the front of the house.

  Grams glanced in that direction with a start. “What in heaven’s name?” She rose to her feet, prompting the others to theirs as well.