The Girl at Rosewood Hall (A Lady Jane Mystery)

by Annis Bell

  “Oh, we’re off to London tomorrow and won’t be back for three or four weeks. That’s right, isn’t it, Thomas?” Lady Alison leaned heavily on the arm of her husband, who seemed not to mind at all as he looked lovingly at her.

  Disappointed, Jane accompanied her friends out of the salon. She would have loved to have the chance to speak to Alison alone, but that was all but impossible now, and tomorrow her friend was traveling to London. In the end, though, no one could make this decision for her. It was her life that hung in the balance.

  5.

  It was well after midnight when Jane, in slippers and a dressing gown, made her way downstairs. She could not sleep and wanted to fetch a book from the library. When she saw light shining through the gap by the door, she quietly turned the knob and entered. She closed the door almost silently behind her and went toward the wing chair by the fireplace. The only sound was the sweep of her woolen dressing gown on the hardwood floor. A decanter of port stood on a table, and books were arranged in stacks around the chair. When she heard a grunt and saw the powerful body of a Great Dane stretched out on a Persian carpet, Jane, with some relief, stepped closer.

  The Great Dane didn’t even lift his head. He simply blinked at her and rolled onto his back. Jane crouched and scratched the magnificent gray dog on his belly.

  “Jane? Is that you?” Her uncle’s voice sounded sleepy.

  “Yes. I didn’t want to disturb you.” She moved up beside the chair, laid her arm around her uncle’s shoulders, and kissed him softly on his silver hair. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Lord Henry had on a deep-red velvet housecoat and comfortable slippers. Jane pulled up a leather seat cushion and settled herself at her uncle’s feet. It was something she had done as a child, when her uncle had told her stories about India and her parents.

  “Pour us a little port, my dear. The decanter’s just there.” He pointed to the table, an intricately wrought oriental piece.

  “Are you allowed to? The doctor—” Jane objected, but her uncle clapped the book in his lap closed and gave a short, dry laugh.

  “It makes no difference anymore. Let me have my little pleasures, and let us enjoy this moment of peace, just for us.” Henry Pembroke, lord and peer and a close friend of Lord Melbourne before the prime minister’s death, smiled mildly.

  When he looked at his niece, his pale eyes were full of benevolence and love, and Jane had to keep a tight rein on her emotions to stop herself from bursting into tears. She hated to see her uncle as fragile as this. The evening had been more strenuous for him than he was willing to admit. The shadows around his eyes had a purple tinge, and his cheeks were noticeably sunken. But when he looked at her and smiled, he was radiant.

  She poured the ruby-red port into two small glasses and handed one to her uncle.

  “To you, my dear! The secret heart of the ball!” Henry Pembroke smiled and sipped at his glass.

  “Oh?”

  “It did not escape me that both Captain Wescott and Mr. Devereaux went to great pains to be close to you. Is there something you would like to tell me?”

  Jane scratched the soft ears of the dog. “Well, Mr. Devereaux would certainly love to grace Rosewood Hall with his presence more often, but . . .”

  “But? Could you fetch the humidor, please? Captain Wescott brought me some most excellent cigars.” Lord Henry held his glass in his fingers and scrutinized the red shimmering liquid.

  Jane stood again and crossed to a locked book cabinet. The key for the glass doors was hidden inside the base of a bronze sculpture. Hiding things had two purposes for her uncle: For one, it gave him a special pleasure. He also had good reason to keep his expensive cigars away from the staff and her venal cousin. They never talked about it, but Jane knew that profound differences separated Henry from his son. Matthew’s jealousy of Jane was one reason father and son did not get along. His wife’s spiteful nature was another.

  Jane waited until her uncle, his eyes half-closed, drew on his cigar. The aromatic odor of the tobacco mixed with the smells of leather, paper, and burning wood. And of Rufus, Jane thought, casting a disapproving eye at the Great Dane. But the dog merely rolled onto his side.

  “There is something about Mr. Devereaux that I can’t abide.”

  “Did he try to make an advance on you?” Bluish rings of smoke rose toward the ceiling, and Lord Henry coughed a little.

  “He tried, but I turned him down.” Jane fumbled at the cords of her woolen gown. “Do you know Captain Wescott well, Uncle?”

  Lord Henry looked at his cigar. “His father and I go back a long way. You wouldn’t remember it—you were still a child—but we once visited the duke and his family.”

  “Really? How could I forget something like that!” Jane made an effort to find some memory of the visit, some image in her mind of Duke of St. Amand and the young David Wescott.

  “It was just after you arrived here in England. St. Amand’s Court was being rebuilt at the time. A beautiful estate south of Cambridge. You were particularly fond of the duck pond.”

  “Was the captain there?” asked Jane doubtfully.

  “I don’t remember exactly anymore, Jane, but I believe so. There were many children in the garden. What do you think of David Wescott?”

  Surprised, she looked at her uncle, but he just continued to draw on his cigar, unconcerned. “He seems to be a man of honor.”

  Lord Henry nodded in agreement. “I know only a few men I would trust with my life, and Wescott is one of them. He has been through a very difficult time. I thought a soiree like tonight’s would do him good, and . . .” He smiled. “And I hoped you would like him.”

  Jane’s breath caught. Had she stepped into a well-set trap? Had Wescott perhaps arranged something with her uncle? She sat stiffly on her cushion and looked her uncle in the eye. “You hoped . . . ? Or have you already discussed the details of a marriage contract?” Her brown eyes sparkled furiously. “Wescott proposed to me! But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “What? No! Jane, my God, that makes me very happy! I mean, it’s a surprise, and he never was a man to waste time, but . . .” Lord Henry coughed and had to drink something before he could say anything else. “It would make me happy to know that you are being cared for. Were I to pass away . . .”

  “Don’t say that, Uncle!” Jane’s anger evaporated instantly.

  Henry Pembroke sighed. “Things are what they are, my darling Jane, my daughter. I don’t have much time left.” He raised a placating hand and set down the cigar. “And I could make my peace with this life if I knew you were married.”

  He leaned forward and placed his left hand under his niece’s chin. “You are well off, Jane. I have seen to it that you are financially secure, as a father ought to safeguard his daughter. You will never have to suffer any hardship, and even a husband could never have access to your entire fortune.”

  “But if I don’t marry, there will always be a guardian,” Jane whispered.

  Henry sank back into his chair, his brow deeply furrowed. “Yes. That is the law. I can’t do anything about that. Matthew would become your guardian. But he is your cousin, and you have known each other since you were both very small. He is not a bad man, Jane, as much as he likes to puff himself up.”

  “But Bridget is a beast!” Jane could not keep the words inside.

  Her uncle rocked his head from side to side. “Unfortunately, Matthew made a genuinely bad choice there. But if you marry, Jane, your fortune will pass to you. Then you will have access to it without a guardian, and you know that Mulberry Park in Cornwall is part of that. You could move there. Your parents loved the place very much, and I have taken steps to ensure that it has been properly maintained.”

  “Oh, Uncle . . .” Jane laid her head on his knee.

  He stroked her hair lovingly. “There are times I find it hard to believe how fast the time has flow
n. I still see the small, frightened girl with the sad eyes, looking at me with such accusation, such defiance, as only your father could. Jane, my angel, you brought sunshine into my life, and you too will be happy. Someday you will remember your old uncle, raise your glass of port, and say that I was right.”

  Jane smothered her tears in the velvet of Lord Henry’s housecoat.

  “Now, now. I’m still here, and I can still protect you. And what should I tell the young captain, should he ask for my permission?”

  “Tell me what you know about him. How am I supposed to form any kind of judgment if I know nothing about the man?” Jane lamented through her tears.

  Lord Henry cleared his throat and puffed on his cigar. “He has a good reputation, no debts as far as I know, and he has no notoriety as a gambler. He has fallen out with his father, however, but that carries little weight when it comes down to it; as the youngest son, he would inherit nothing regardless. His brother, Robert, will succeed to his father’s title and lands.” He thought for a moment in silence, and then went on. “I know practically nothing about the middle son, Lawrence. He studied theology or some such—something useless. And there are two sisters, one of whom is still unwed, from the duke’s first marriage. Captain David Wescott is the only son from his second marriage. His mother died young. It was all very tragic, and the duke went into mourning for years. She was a real beauty, a Russian woman.”

  “Russian? Wasn’t Wescott in the Crimean War?”

  “That’s right. That would be one of fate’s ironies, wouldn’t it? We didn’t exactly cover ourselves with glory there.” He swallowed a mouthful of his port.

  “The captain was badly wounded and they repatriated him for that, didn’t they?”

  “A brave soldier, that’s true. But there was something else . . . some sort of scandal that had to do with Lord Lucan. I can find out about that. Now, Lucan and his brother-in-law Cardigan have to answer before court for their failures on the Crimean Peninsula. The case is not over yet.” Lord Henry was suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing, and Jane took the cigar out of his hand.

  “You shouldn’t be smoking! Where are your tablets?”

  Her uncle flapped one arm helplessly toward the table and knocked the decanter onto the floor in the process. Rufus immediately leaped up and began barking.

  It was a fraction of a second before the door flew open and Lord Henry’s butler, Floyd, hurried in.

  “You called, your lordship?” Floyd inquired, but more for the sake of form, for he took in the scene at a glance. Floyd had served his master for more than twenty years and was devoted to him. “Those cigars will be your death, my lord. Doctor Paterson expressly prohibited them.”

  Lord Henry struggled to catch his breath. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his face was ashen. Jane took hold of Rufus by the collar and pulled him aside to prevent him from injuring himself on the glass of the broken decanter.

  “His medicine! Where is his medicine?” Jane cried desperately, as she managed to get the dog to lie down a safe distance away.

  Floyd produced a small container from his coat pocket and took out a tablet, which he placed between Lord Henry’s lips. “Try to swallow it, sir.”

  Jane fetched a jug of water standing on a credenza by the door and brought it to Floyd.

  “That is good, my lady.” Floyd gave his master a little water, then wiped his brow with a moist cloth. A few moments passed, then Lord Pembroke’s breathing steadied and he slumped exhausted back into his chair.

  Concerned, Jane looked to the butler. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”

  “Certainly, my lady. I will take him to bed and send for Doctor Paterson.”

  Lord Henry heard him and opened his eyes. In a hoarse voice he whispered, “Let the poor doctor sleep. Give me another tablet, then everyone can go to bed. Jane!”

  She took hold of his hand and kneeled beside him. “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Everything will be all right, my angel.”

  Jane slept restlessly. She tossed and turned, waking up repeatedly from nightmares, covered in sweat. In her dreams, the dead girl from the park pleaded for her help. Devereaux danced with Alison, who pulled free of his grasp and ran toward Jane. But Thomas stepped between them, and Wescott was suddenly standing in front of her, telling her that her uncle was dead.

  After that last terrible dream, Jane decided she might as well get up. It was chilly in the bedroom, for the fire had burned down to a few dull embers. She stepped into her slippers, wrapped a plaid blanket around her shoulders, and went to the window. She had to breathe on the frosted pane several times to see outside. It was snowing! More snow meant more cold weather, more days she would have to spend inside. And then she recalled the dramatic events of the evening before.

  “Hettie!” Jane wanted to take a hot bath and talk to Wescott about the girl before her uncle rose and got wind of the matter.

  Her maid peeped through the door between their rooms. She was still tying her bonnet but already seemed wide awake and cheerful. “Good morning, ma’am. You’re up early this morning.”

  Finished, Hettie swept into the room, pulled the curtains wide, and tied them back with cords attached beside the window. “Snowing again! If only spring would finally come. Oh, I was down below, and his lordship’s butler told me about a strange man in the hothouse.”

  “That is Captain Wescott’s valet. Hurry, I want to bathe and get dressed. Is the captain already up?”

  “He was up and about very early and had his horse saddled. I don’t believe he’s back yet. Alma was going on about him.” Hettie chatted on about the gossip among the servants, and Jane was amazed that anyone could pour out so many words so early in the morning.

  “First tea, then the bath. And hurry, Hettie!”

  An hour later, Jane, wearing a moss-green dress, stepped into the dining room, where breakfast had been set out. Her uncle was not yet out of bed. On the one hand, that made her feel relieved; on the other, it filled her with concern for the state of his health. She sat down and accepted a cup of tea. The table was covered with a huge variety of food, much of it from the previous evening’s buffet. There was cold pheasant, mutton, baked and boiled ham, fried eggs and poached eggs, pickled beans and sardines, but Jane ignored it all and ate just toast and marmalade.

  On days without visitors, Jane enjoyed a calm breakfast alone with her uncle. They would discuss the day ahead or chat about an article in the newspaper. Her uncle, against the grain of prevailing mores, had nothing against Jane knowing about the events of the day. Jane read the Wiltshire Independent at the table. Her uncle usually read the Wilts and Gloucester Standard before getting out of bed.

  The maid handling the tea service almost dropped a teacup when the door flew open and Matthew and his wife paraded in. Bridget, pregnant with her third child, waddled like a duck, and her eyes narrowed to slits when she saw Jane. Her sharp nose and small chin pointed forward. She had pasty white skin and dull brown hair. But what nature had denied her in physical endowments, it made up for in spitefulness and nagging. Their two children were away visiting Bridget’s parents, and no one who had had the pleasure of dealing with the bad-mannered brats was unhappy at their absence.

  “Good morning, Matthew, Bridget,” said Jane politely, but without folding her newspaper.

  Daisy, the housemaid, served steaming tea and murmured the obligatory “good morning” nervously.

  Bridget sank wheezing onto a chair. “The tea is already cold. Take the pot and brew some fresh.”

  The girl made an unhappy face and lifted the teapot. “Pardon, madam, but it is boiling hot. I have just brought it up.”

  “I did not ask for your opinion, you oaf! Do what you are bidden and hold your tongue! Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, madam,” mumbled the maid, and took the pot away again.

  “That was absolute
ly unnecessary, Bridget. The tea is hot!” said Jane, gesturing at the steam rising off it.

  Matthew, meanwhile, walked around the table. He filled his plate with meat and beans and flicked at Jane’s newspaper. “Give me that. That’s nothing for a lady!”

  “Pfff, as if she was one!” Bridget goaded, placing a sardine on her plate. “Where are the servants this morning? Lord, one has to do everything oneself!”

  With exaggerated slowness, Jane folded the newspaper and set it beside her plate. “My guess would be that they are all down below clearing up the ballroom, Bridget dear.”

  Matthew reached across the table and took the newspaper. It was hard to imagine a father and son less alike than Lord Henry and Matthew. Matthew was shorter than his father and had stringy light-brown hair, a narrow, hawkish nose, and a receding chin. Lines had formed around his small mouth, lines that said more about his intemperate, impulsive character than any particular intelligence. He had studied various subjects at Oxford but left without graduating. And he loathed life in the country. He had no feeling whatsoever for his father’s love of botany and made no secret of the fact that he considered the purchase of expensive orchids to be a waste of money. Even as a child, Jane had decided for herself that her uncle had raised another man’s son.

  “Servants are not born into the lower classes without reason,” said Bridget, spoiling for a fight and staring at Jane.

  Daisy returned with a fresh pot of tea, but Bridget ignored the girl.

  “One is not born a servant. One is born a human being. Even you should have realized that by now.” Before she had finished her sentence, Jane regretted her imprudence. Bridget’s riposte was not long in coming.

  “Easy for you to say, Jane! All you ever think about is your own pleasure. Here I am about to have my third child, and I’m three years younger than you! A woman’s duty is to look after her husband, her home, and her children.” Bridget placed one hand on the curve of her belly and leaned forward slightly. “Don’t think for a moment that you can go on living as you have when your uncle is dead, Jane! Some things are going to change around here for you!”