The Girl at Rosewood Hall (A Lady Jane Mystery)

by Annis Bell

  When breakfast was over, the bell rang and everyone stood. Master Ledford positioned himself at the podium at the end of the hall and intoned the daily prayer.

  “Amen,” he said, and his wife swung the bell again.

  The children filed out of the dining hall. The boys ate at the two tables on the other side of the large room. Among them was Mary’s brother, Tim. Every morning, Mary did her best to see to it that they left the hall together. This gave them an opportunity to talk. She was worried about Tim. He was two years older than she was and in recent months had changed a great deal. He was more often in contact with the people from the poorhouse next door. Apart from the permanent residents—the hopeless cases wasting away in the poorhouse with no hope of any other future—there were often vagabonds or women from the streets looking for a place to stay just for one night. The women especially were sources of news. They came from all parts of the country and brought with them stories of the world beyond the gates that sealed off the poorhouse from the rest of England.

  As Tim stepped up beside her, their hands touched and she looked at him askance. His skin was pale, his eyes were ringed by dark shadows, and one throbbing vein was clearly visible at his temple. “Timmy, have you heard anything about Polly?”

  “No. Maybe she’s forgot about us. Maybe she’s off living the high life in some fancy house.” Her brother’s lips were thin.

  “She would never forget me. Timmy, she wanted to write to me. She promised! Something’s wrong, and I’m scared.”

  “Stop it, Mary. Work hard and get better at reading and writing. Then you’ll find a job with a well-to-do family. Or do you want to perish in some factory?”

  “No,” she whispered, but so low it was hard to hear. Factories were springing up everywhere, like mushrooms. Textile mills in particular. Everyone knew how bad the working conditions were, but for many it was the only path they had left, the last step before the poorhouse.

  Polly was pretty and intelligent. She had learned to read and write faster than the others and had always encouraged Mary to do the same. But Mary was slower, and things didn’t stick in her head as easily. But once she learned something properly, she never forgot it. Without Polly, things were harder, and she was afraid all the time. She was afraid of Mr. Cooper, the master, and Sister Susan. If you got on the wrong side of them, you could find yourself put on the list. Once you were on the list, sooner or later you disappeared.

  “But Polly wasn’t on the list, Timmy. She had herself a position. Why doesn’t she write?”

  They were standing out in the yard now, from where the boys and girls would go into their classrooms in the various buildings. The children had a few minutes free to play before the bell rang for the start of classes. One of the older boys, who came from the streets of London, wandered over to them.

  “Oy, Tim. We’re waiting.” The boy was tall, and there was no longer anything boyish in his features. He nodded his head slightly toward a post where three other older boys were loitering.

  “I’m coming, Amos. I have to talk to my sister.”

  Amos wandered off again, smiling disdainfully and walking his swaggering walk. There wasn’t a week that went by without him tangling with Mr. Cooper and getting beaten or locked up. But his spirit seemed to be made of iron, impossible to break.

  Tim took her by the shoulders and looked intently at her. “Mary, I can’t stay here. Neither can Amos. We’re on the list!” He whispered those last words.

  Mary smothered a cry of fright with her hand. “How do you know?”

  “Mr. Gaunt told us. I think he’s in trouble anyway and knows they’re going to give him the boot. So he told us. Do you understand?”

  Not completely, thought Mary, but she nodded eagerly because she didn’t want to look dumb. Tim glanced around quickly, then reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out a small wooden figure. He pressed it into Mary’s hand. “It’s a cat. Because you love cats so much. It’ll remind you of me. We’re taking off tonight, Mary.”

  “Take me with you, Timmy!” she pleaded as she squeezed the wooden cat between her fingers.

  Her brother embraced her quickly and then immediately let her go, not wanting to draw attention. He rubbed at his eyes awkwardly with one hand. “That wouldn’t be any kind of life for you, Mary. You’re not built for the street. I couldn’t bear it. Stay here and study hard, you hear? Promise me that. I want to be proud of you. One day, I’ll come and find you. I’ll find you, Mary!” Then he kissed her forehead and abruptly turned away and strolled off toward the other lads as if nothing had happened.

  Mary stood there and watched him walk away. He didn’t turn back.

  4.

  Jane slammed the door to her bedroom closed and let out a long sigh. “Phew. What an evening.”

  Her maid bustled through the door that connected the bedroom to the small salon and clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh, ma’am, tell me what is happening below! I can hear the music and I took a peek into the ballroom, but I didn’t see you dancing! And there are so many fine men! You can take your pick!”

  Six years earlier, Henrietta Beedle had come to her as a shy, half-starved creature, the fifth of eleven children from a fishing family in Cornwall. Tonight, no trace of that girl remained. Hettie, as she was known to all in the household, had developed into an attentive, lively young woman. Jane had seen to it that Hettie learned to read and write, for she believed a spirit could grow healthy only when sufficient nourishment was provided. Admittedly, she also did not want people around who could not at least partly understand her. It had become her habit to pass on to Hettie the books she herself had read and enjoyed, and this had led to them sharing many interesting conversations.

  Hettie was shorter than Jane and had a real sweet tooth, which did little for her figure, but her round face was graced with a button nose and bright blue-green eyes. Her somewhat bristly sandy hair jutted perkily from beneath her white bonnet as she looked her mistress over and then dropped to her knees in front of her. “Your shoes are soaked through!”

  “Wait until you hear why.”

  “Oh?” Hettie slid a chair across for her mistress and rubbed her cold feet dry with a towel. Then she produced a fresh pair of shoes. “Hmm. These may not go quite as well as the blue ones, but the ball is nearly over in any case.”

  Jane realized just how hard the death of the girl had hit her, and she described the incident and the request that went with it to her maid as briefly as she could. “Would you do that for me, Hettie?”

  The young maid nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, ma’am! Rosie was my fourth cousin and in a very bad way.” She scratched her scalp beneath her bonnet. “Which is really not so much of a lie, for the poor girl really did suffer. But who would do something like that? How long had she been wandering out in the cold?”

  Jane smoothed her skirt and stood up. “Thank you, Hettie. You’re a good person, and very clever besides!”

  Hettie’s bright eyes beamed. “Is there anything else I can do for you? I think it’s good you haven’t said a word to the young master. Wouldn’t he be thrilled to see your uncle upset and ill!”

  Hettie could abide Matthew Pembroke no better than Jane, for he and his wife, Bridget, treated the servants with no respect whatsoever. Utter disregard was the friendliest gesture any of them could expect from Matthew and Bridget. If Lord Henry was not present, even the slightest mistake was severely punished.

  “The captain sounds like a nice man,” Hettie added as she straightened Jane’s hair.

  Jane went to the door with Hettie following her. “He will be staying until tomorrow, and it is good that he does. We have to take care of the burial and . . . but we will discuss everything else then.”

  With her quick, skillful fingers, Hettie had put her mistress back in order, and now she sprayed a hint of violet perfume over Jane.

  “Enough now!” Jan
e slipped through the door, just managing to escape a second cloud of perfume, and ran back down to the ballroom.

  Charles Devereaux seemed to have been waiting for her. He pounced on her immediately and led her to the dance floor.

  “You promised me a waltz. And before you go disappearing into the snow again, I have decided to seize the moment!” He smiled disarmingly and whirled her elegantly among the other dancers. “Please forgive my impertinence, my lady, but I am surprised to find that such an enchanting woman has not yet tied the knot. No doubt you do not suffer from a lack of suitors.”

  Jane cleared her throat and avoided his eye. “My uncle is a very endearing man. He has never pressed me unduly in that regard.”

  “I imagine he enjoys your company and fears he will be robbed of that should you make up your mind to establish a family of your own. Isn’t that rather too self-serving?”

  Jane frowned. “Uncle Henry is my family, Mr. Devereaux, and I would never do anything to hurt him.”

  “Pardon me. I expressed myself clumsily. I will be in London until the end of the Season, when my business will require my return to India. Would you allow me, until then, to call on you?”

  They had time for a final, vigorous turn around the dance floor before the music came to an end and the guests clapped politely.

  Devereaux stood in front of Jane. “You have not given me an answer. Dare I hope? I do not appreciate being left hanging.”

  Jane recoiled from the businessman’s hard eyes. “You are right not to. I’m the same. Please consider yourself relieved of any obligation toward me, Mr. Devereaux.” Jane turned away forcefully and might well have stumbled had not the strong arms of Captain Wescott been there to catch her.

  “There you are, Lady Jane! Devereaux, do you mind?” asked Wescott, although more for the sake of form, for it was clear he expected no reply.

  The next dance was a slower waltz, a piece from Chopin, but Wescott danced no more than a few steps with Jane before he said, “I would like to talk to you.”

  She looked at him in surprise, then allowed him to lead her without further explanation through the ranks of chatting and laughing guests, whose cheeks were warmed by the champagne, the dancing, and the warmth of the ballroom, to the entrance hall. Several women stood fanning themselves for air and accepting refreshing drinks from their consorts.

  “In there,” said Jane, and turned in the direction of a small salon on the other side of the entrance hall.

  Wescott swung the door behind them, giving them as much privacy as possible while, for the sake of etiquette, not closing it completely. A fire crackled in the fireplace and threw flickering shadows across the saffron-yellow damask wallpaper. The furniture and the paintings on the walls gave the room an air of the Orient.

  Jane crossed to one of the paintings. It depicted a palace in Rajasthan and a procession of heavily adorned elephants. “We call this the Indian room.” She touched the picture frame. “What did you want to tell me? Has it to do with the girl?”

  Wescott shook his head almost imperceptibly and looked at the painting. “The painter caught the atmosphere well. The light in India, you know, is very different than it is here.”

  “I know. I lived there when I was young,” Jane replied. “I remember the sun. It was wonderfully warm. And I rode on an elephant.”

  “How long were you there?” Wescott was standing beside her, and their shoulders were almost touching.

  “My parents died when I was five. Cholera.”

  “You survived cholera as a child . . . a miracle. You were very lucky,” Wescott said quietly.

  “Probably,” Jane whispered, feeling a deep, desperate sadness rising inside her as it had so often recently.

  “You did survive.”

  “But for such a price.”

  “Lady Jane.” He cleared his throat and looked at her.

  Slowly, Jane turned to face him.

  “I could not . . . well, earlier, before I followed you into the garden . . . I heard what you said to Lady Alison about marriage. And freedom.” He fell silent and seemed to be searching for the right words.

  Jane laughed bitterly. “We women have no freedom. You heard it! I cannot touch the fortune I have. My uncle is a wonderful man whom I love very much, but he is sick.” She wrung her hands in despair. “He raised me. He gave me all the freedom I wanted, perhaps too much. But it is not all his fault. My parents were the same way. They did not draw distinctions and instead let me play with the local children . . . I know how things can be, and now I can’t go back! Do you understand?”

  Wescott looked at her for an endless moment before he spoke, and when he finally did, he spoke calmly, as if weighing every word. “I believe so, yes. And perhaps I am precisely the man to help you. I have no fortune, but I have a good name. My military career is at an end. The war in Crimea cost me much of my health.” His face twisted bitterly. “This scar is just one of many.”

  Jane drew breath audibly. “Oh!”

  But Wescott waved it off. “No cause for sympathy. Things are as they are. I have other talents and am looking for new duties. High social connections are certainly an advantage in such a search. You are a clever and practical woman. You proved that tonight. And you have a title and a fortune.” He paused for a moment, and Jane waited for him to continue.

  “Become my wife. I will give you your freedom. For you, it would mean no more than accompanying me to receptions from time to time and acting as the social framework for meetings with business contacts.”

  Jane stared at him in complete bewilderment. “How am I to understand that? You want my money?” She snorted. “I might as well marry Mr. Devereaux or some dowry hunter. They’re all after my money, too! I have no illusions, Captain Wescott. At twenty-five, I am no longer the most desirable trophy on the market.”

  He shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t want your money. You can do or not do whatever you like with that. We can specify that contractually. I expect from you only what I have just described.”

  “Nothing more? No, um, marital obligations?” Jane plucked at her silk skirt.

  His expression was again unreadable. “No. You would be completely free. As would I.”

  “I see.” Confused, at a loss, she stood and looked at him. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected a proposal as unusual as this. “You don’t want any heirs?”

  “No. Unless you wish to have children? We could specify that as well. In case . . .”

  But Jane shook her head vehemently. “No, no. Hmm. So our . . . contract would be limited to a business partnership?”

  “No more.”

  “What line of business are you pursuing?”

  “It is of a political nature.”

  “Do you plan to run for parliament?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “No. But that’s beside the point. I am an honest man, a man of my word.”

  “I don’t know you! I know nothing about you at all!”

  “Ask your uncle. He invited me. We know each other from the past.” He did not smile, but his eyes were gentle.

  “He’s never mentioned you.”

  Wescott shrugged. “Perhaps you don’t know everything about your uncle, or just as little as he knows about you.”

  Jane lowered her eyes, only to raise her head and look directly at him. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  A jolt seemed to run through Wescott. His shoulders stiffened, and the look in his eyes grew hard and forbidding. “My lady, forget what I have just said to you. Blount, my valet, is making sure that no one enters the room where the dead girl is lying, and we can talk about the next steps to take tomorrow. A solution will be found, one your uncle . . .”

  “Oh, now, don’t act so affronted! Given the extraordinary circumstances and your unusual proposal, you can hardly say that my suspicion
came out of thin air!” Jane hissed angrily.

  A hint of a smile played on Wescott’s lips, and he tilted his head slightly. “My apologies, my lady. In case you are considering my proposal, you should know that I am extremely sensitive when it comes to questions of honor.”

  She had touched a nerve. Beneath that hard exterior of military rigor and brusqueness was a vulnerable soul. And that made him human. She would probably regret it, but she trusted him. “How long will you be our guest?”

  “I leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “Then you shall have my answer by then.”

  Jane heard the sound of steps and Alison’s voice from the foyer. Wescott looked around and pointed to the door in the opposite wall. “I will go. Please don’t worry, my lady.”

  He had just disappeared when the door from the foyer swung opened and Alison came in with her husband. They were accompanied by two more couples swinging their champagne glasses and obviously in a brilliant mood. Jane barely had time to pull herself together. She took a deep breath and put on a broad smile.

  “Alison, darling. Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you! That dreadful Devereaux . . .” Jane looked past the heads of the guests. “He’s not close by, is he?”

  Lady Alison giggled. “No, he is not, and I must say he looked anything but happy after you danced with him. Tch, you really must tell me everything!” A strand of blond hair had escaped from Alison’s artfully conceived coiffure, and she blew it out of her face. “What are you even doing here? You really should not be alone in here languishing in your memories. It’s not healthy! No one should be sad, right, Thomas? Do say something!”

  Lord Thomas took his tipsy wife’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “It’s late, and time we were going. Lord Henry seems rather tired. How are things with him, Jane?”

  Jane saw with relief that the two couples merry on champagne were already weaving out of the salon. “Not so good, I fear. You’re right. I’ll go and see to him and make sure he gets to bed. When will we see each other again, Ally?”