by Lee Strauss
Though she had attended many weddings and served at even more, Mrs. Beasley had never been married. Her title of “Mrs.” was a courtesy awarded to her because of her senior position as head cook. She’d been too homely and poor to attract a suitor, and in the end, she’d counted that a blessing. In service since she was ten years old, she’d seen plenty of under-parlour maids and such get in the family way and thrown onto the streets. Most of those servant girls who did find husbands ended up worn to shreds with children coming every year or two like clockwork.
Once the hustle and bustle of this day was over, Mrs. Beasley would give Lizzie a good talking-to. She’d grown fond of the girl whose roving eyes would only bring heartache. Servant life was a good life, particularly with a mistress like Lady Gold. Mrs. Beasley was quite satisfied with her station and position in life, and Lizzie would be wise to follow suit.
It felt like just yesterday when Mrs. Beasley’s days as a kitchen maid had started before the break of dawn and didn’t end until long after dark. She’d blackened stoves, scrubbed vegetables, polished boots, and ironed bootlaces. She’d worked her way up the kitchen ranks, got small increases in pay, a better bedroom—one with heat—and a softer bed with a quilt that still had a bit of stuffing. It was her dream of becoming a head cook in a respectable house that had kept her going through those hard years. Now, here she was.
She’d be doing a disservice to this younger lot by being too easy on them.
“Grace! The dishes in the scullery shan’t wash themselves! Scout, don’t miss the dirt in the corners!”
Feeling flushed, Mrs. Beasley balanced herself on the lone kitchen stool and lifted her swollen feet. Life as she knew it was about to change; it always did when someone new took up residence in the house, and this gentleman was enlisting for a long time. It wasn’t like there weren’t any men about Hartigan House. There was Clement, the gardener, and Pippins, but they were servants, where Mr. Reed would be master. What sort of requirements would he bring?
Lady Gold was happy, and that was all Mrs. Beasley cared about now. After today, she’d simply be Mrs. Reed. She must love this Chief Inspector to accept a society drop such as that. But Mrs. Beasley wasn’t about to judge.
An acrid scent irritated her nostrils. She jumped to her feet, waddled like a running duck to the stove, and opened the oven door. Smoke streamed to the ceilings.
“Lizzie!”
Grabbing a potholder, Mrs. Beasley deftly removed the steaming hot Bramley apple pies. “Dear Lord!”
“Only one’s been burned,” Grace said as she peered around Mrs. Beasley’s stout body. “And not badly.”
Mrs. Beasley had the nose of a hound when it came to her baked goods. Grace was correct, a revelation that surprised the cook. She’d assumed Grace’s lowly demeanour reflected mental slowness. Could it be she’d misjudged the girl?
“It’s not as if we have time to make another one,” Mrs. Beasley said. “It shall have to do.”
“There’re the biscuits that Lizzie and I baked, as well,” Grace offered.
Mrs. Beasley narrowed small dark eyes and scanned the kitchen. “Where is Lizzie?”
Scout was there, standing still as a tombstone, taking in the drama.
“Scout, did Lizzie say where she was going? Did the mistress ring for her?” Mrs. Beasley didn’t like to admit it, but her hearing wasn’t what it used to be. “Speak up, boy!”
Scout stammered, “I-I dun’t know where Lizzie’s gone to, and the missus din’t ring.”
Mrs. Beasley wiped the moisture that dotted her wrinkled forehead with the edge of her apron. “Grace, go and fetch her, will you? We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
FELICIA
Felicia Gold had been wearing her wedding finery for an hour already, long before breakfast, which was so unlike her. She’d dressed in a soft pink chiffon frock under a metallic lace coat. She paired this with an ostrich-feather boa and a tight-fitting turban hat, which shrouded the short dark hair that framed her youthful, teardrop face splendidly. On her feet were matching satin-silk shoes with large sparkly clasps. Felicia knew the outfit was flamboyant for the occasion but didn’t care. The largesse was a necessity: it helped to conceal her sadness.
She wished she hadn’t been so quick to apply her makeup—a lighter and softer touch than when she went dancing at the clubs—for fear of messing her mascara with tears. She must not give in to this barrel of emotion that threatened to burst like a new well.
It wasn’t as if Ginger’s marriage to Basil Reed would change anything . . . would it? Ginger had reassured her that she and her grandmother could stay at Hartigan House for as long as they liked. They’d just have to get accustomed to a man about the house. Even though she and Ambrosia had only lived there a year, London felt like home. Country living at Bray Manor was a distant memory.
Felicia started at the light knock on her bedroom door, and when she called out, she was stunned to see Ginger wearing a housedress.
“Ginger? I thought you were Lizzie coming to tell me the taxicab had arrived. Why are you not dressed? Oh, goodness, I should have offered to help!” Her shoulders collapsed into herself after that outburst. “Of course, you have Lizzie for that.” Felicia’s expression crumpled, and she jumped from her chair. She extracted a handkerchief from her bedside cabinet and sobbed into it.
Alarmed, Ginger hurried to her side. “What’s the matter, love? Has something happened?”
Felicia blinked with watery eyes. “No, nothing terrible. This is a very happy day. I’m simply happy for you!”
Ginger drew her sister-in-law into a gentle embrace. “Is this about Daniel?”
Felicia’s body shook as she fought back the tears. “I’m worried he is being forgotten.”
Felicia had lost her parents to a carriage accident when she was too young to remember. Daniel had been old enough to make his own way, but Felicia had fallen into the care of her bereft and overbearing grandmother, the Dowager Lady Ambrosia Gold.
“I’ll never forget Daniel,” Ginger said kindly. “I loved him. A part of my heart shall always belong to him.”
Felicia dabbed at her reddening nose. “I rarely mention him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think of him every day.”
“You can speak of him to me at any time,” Ginger said. “I’d welcome it.”
“But, you’ll be married to another man. Wouldn’t that be strange? Oh, Lord.” Felicia’s brow furrowed. “Shall we still be sisters-in-law?”
“We shall always be sisters,” Ginger said. “No matter what the law says.”
Felicia relaxed in Ginger’s arms. “You’re too good to me.” She gently pulled away and ran the tip of her handkerchief under her eyes. “I’ve ruined my makeup.”
“You look beautiful, Felicia.”
“At least I have my gown on. Now allow me to assist you with yours. It’ll never do to be late to the church. Poor Basil might think you’ve left him at the altar.”
“There is something I could use your help with,” Ginger said.
“What is it?”
“I seem to have misplaced Basil’s ring.”
AMBROSIA
Dowager Lady Ambrosia Gold sat in the quiet of the little-used drawing room. She found the contrasting pastel colours of the furniture and wallpaper satisfying. Rose-coloured netting on the large windows brightened the area with a warm glow. It had a sophistication that the sitting room, where the younger set gathered, somehow had missed. Here she could think without the ridiculous hullabaloo that permeated the rest of Hartigan House at any given time.
Captivated by the flames snapping in the hearth, she let her mind wander back to her own wedding day, so many years ago. The world was a different place then. Ladies were satisfied with their station in the home: managing servants, bringing up children, supporting good causes. How she missed her days running Bray Manor in Chesterton.
The female persuasion knew about decorum and polite society. Her own beloved granddaughter continued to b
e a source of dismay and embarrassment in that regard. Not only were the girl’s antics unsuitable for one of her station, but her wardrobe choice often caused the Dowager Lady Gold to nearly faint. What would be next? Young ladies baring their knees?!
Ambrosia had had a privileged upbringing, and her 1870 marriage to Sir Artemis Gold had guaranteed a comfortable lifestyle amongst the elite. Her lips tugged up into a small smile as she recalled her handsome groom. He’d pursued her openly, as a gentleman should. Their engagement had been short and their wedding large. She’d been so young and naive then, only eighteen. Had she known the heartache ahead of her, she might’ve committed herself to spinsterhood.
The muscles in her face relaxed back into a frown. The lines etched around her shrinking eyes and thinning lips told the story of many hard years. There was the lost child. No one knew about the untimely delivery because one didn’t discuss personal matters such as that. Blessedly, the next one, a son, had lived.
Alas, there were to be no more children. Despite this, Ambrosia had been quite happy for a long while, not knowing her dear husband had got himself entangled with the sin of gambling. It wasn’t until Ambrosia’s son Jonathon had married—and what a sum was spent on the event!—did she suspect. When Artemis unexpectedly died of a heart attack, the devastating truth of the matter came to light. They were destitute.
Somehow, with Jonathon’s help, they managed to keep Bray Manor, and more importantly, keep up appearances. Then another unbearable tragedy struck. Both Jonathon and his wife were killed in a carriage mishap.
Then Daniel announced he was going to America to marry Georgia Hartigan and save the family from financial ruin. Arranged marriages had stood the test of time and tradition. It was pure luck, or perhaps, the grace of God that Daniel and Ginger had actually fallen in love.
A tap on the drawing-room door was followed by the entrance of Ambrosia’s maid, Langley, a tall, thin woman with arms as long as an ape’s.
“Set the tray there,” Ambrosia instructed.
“Can I get you anything else, madam?”
“Nothing, thank you. You may leave.”
Ambrosia’s long, gnarled fingers stroked her grey, shingled bob. It had grown out since her foolish and impulsive salon trip that had resulted in this vanity, but growing it out meant a pile of hairpins poking into her scalp. She simply couldn’t tolerate the discomfort. When one had as many years behind her as she had, one had to grasp for comfort wherever one could. She had gradually become used to her new look when she studied her reflection in the mirror, but she did miss the weight of her bun on her head. It made her feel as if she was donning a crown or a tiara, especially once decorated with gem-encrusted clips and pins.
She sipped the hot morning tea, ignoring the tremor in her hands. Ageing was for the birds!
A large framed portrait of Ginger’s parents, when they were young and both alive, hung prominently on the wall. The former master and mistress of Hartigan House would soon be officially replaced by the next generation. Ambrosia was happy with the match. Basil—she called him by his Christian name now that he was to be family—was from fine stock. Though, for some unfathomable reason, he remained in public service. His father was an Honourable and the title would one day land on Basil Reed. And if she were honest, she was happy not to share the title, Lady Gold. Ginger, bless her heart, was a commoner by blood, though no one would have guessed it had they not already known. Ambrosia secretly disliked that Ginger had a title when her own granddaughter, her own flesh and blood, had none.
Though her hearing was going, the Dowager Lady Gold could still make out a commotion in the hall. She rang for her maid.
“My lady,” the maid said with a slight bending of the knees.
“Langley, what on earth is going on now? Shouldn’t everyone be leaving soon for the church?”
“Yes, madam. But there seems to be a bit of trouble. Lady Gold’s ring is missing.”
“Missing? Which ring?”
“The wedding ring, madam. The one she means to give to the chief inspector.”
GINGER
Ginger began a frantic search for Basil’s ring starting with her chest of drawers. Piece by piece, she flung her silk and satin lingerie on the bed. “I might have placed it here when my mind was elsewhere.”
“You have had a lot on your plate lately,” Felicia said as she opened the drawers of the closest bedside cabinet.
After a thorough search of each drawer, Ginger checked every hatbox and the pockets of every frock hanging in her wardrobe. “It has to be somewhere! The wedding is in one hour! How could I have misplaced Basil’s ring!”
She fell to her hands and knees to search under her furnishings.
Felicia stared at her with dismay. “Ginger!”
“I might have dropped it.” Ginger’s growing desperation drove her to look in even the most ridiculous places, including under the rug and inside her shoes.
“Life’s become quite chaotic since my engagement,” she said stripping the sheets off the bed. The bed clothes fluttered like sails shimmering in a mighty wind.
Felicia nodded sheepishly. “I should have been more help to you.”
Ginger waved off Felicia’s belated concern. It was true that Ginger had been busier than usual with the running of her dress shop, Feathers & Flair—autumn was a trying season for fashion—along with managing her household of staff at Hartigan House. She could have hired an assistant if she needed help. Apparently, she was too busy to see she had indeed needed help. Oh, mercy.
And she mustn’t forget about her young ward, Scout Elliot. Where was he anyway? Ginger always made a point of spending time with him each morning but had failed in that regard lately. Today, she hadn’t even set eyes on the wiry lad. The fact that Boss had also disappeared reassured Ginger that the two were likely together.
“Perhaps Lizzie or Grace moved it somewhere safe when they cleaned your room,” Felicia said.
Ginger simply hummed. She appreciated Felicia’s attempt to soothe her, but they both knew that neither maid would dare to touch such an item of value, much less move it.
Ginger and Felicia stared at the ransacked mess. “It’s not here,” Ginger whispered. She glanced at her watch again. Time was ticking!
“I need to inquire of the staff,” Ginger said. “Someone in this house must know where the ring is.”
Ginger gripped the wooden bannister of the elegant staircase that curved down from the second level to the ground floor entrance. Her slippered feet padded against the plush red runner as her silk nightdress floated behind her. Pippins waited on the black and white tiles, standing as straight as a septuagenarian might, with his white-gloved hands folded. He looked quite handsome in the suit she’d ordered for him.
Reading her look of consternation, the butler asked, “Is something the matter, madam?”
“Yes. I can’t seem to find Basil’s ring.”
Pippins’ grey bushy brows subtly raised. “Madam?”
“The one I’m meant to give to Basil at the ceremony.” A nervous check of her watch told her only two minutes had passed since the last time she looked.
“I see. What would you like me to do?”
“Please assemble the staff in the sitting room.”
Pippins bowed and pivoted toward the back of the house.
Felicia, who’d escorted Ginger down the stairs, said, “Do you think someone’s stolen it?”
“No, at least I hope not. But I need everyone’s help to locate it. I can’t show up at the church without it!”
Pippins was the first to return to the sitting room, followed by Clement the gardener, and Grace. Ginger sat in her favourite armchair facing the fireplace and stared at the Waterhouse masterpiece, The Mermaid, returned to its position above the mantel. The redheaded beauty reminded Ginger of her mother whose red locks Ginger had inherited. The artwork brought her comfort, but today she wished she could reach into the painting and draw Basil’s ring from the jewels within.
/> “Where is everyone else?” she asked.
“Mrs. Beasley needs a couple of minutes in the kitchen, madam,” Grace said. The maid sat board-straight with wide eyes darting around the room.
“I’ll round up the others,” Felicia offered and left by the dining room door.
“I’ll start with those present,” Ginger said. “Dear Pips, I gather you’ve seen or heard nothing about a gold wedding band distributed somewhere in the house, or possibly, outside in the grounds?”
“No, madam. I would’ve mentioned it immediately had I witnessed such an item out of place.”
“Of course. I’m asking only as a matter of form.”
Ginger called on Clement. “You’ve little reason to be indoors, but perhaps I’ve accidentally dropped the ring outside after driving the Crossley. Would you mind taking a gander? Both inside the motorcar and the garage, and the pathway to the house.”
Clement jumped to his feet. “I shall be most thorough in my search, madam.”
“Thank you.”
Grace Duncan stared at her hands. The poor thing wasn’t accustomed to being alone in a room with her mistress. Ginger spoke gently, “Grace, when was the last time you worked on the second floor?”
“Just this morning, madam. I dusted and hoovered the spare rooms and the hallways.”
Ginger remembered hearing the vacuum cleaner motor. “Can you tell me the last time you cleaned my bedroom?”
“Just yesterday, madam, but I didn’t take anything, I promise. I never take anything that’s not mine.”
“Of course. Where is Lizzie?”
Grace’s chin darted up, and her jaw grew slack. “She’s not here, madam?”
“Oh? Where has she gone?”
Grace swallowed. “I really couldn’t say.”
Ginger inclined her head and studied the young woman. She was lying, and Ginger wanted to know why.
