The Black Orchid (A Lady Jane Mystery Book 2)

by Annis Bell

  “That is certainly a charming notion. Now wait here while I fetch the smelling salts and some water.” Charlotte’s words had not made Sir Frederick any more endearing to Jane, nor did the governess seem to offer any real support for Charlotte.

  When she stepped out of the drawing room into the hall, she saw the butler and a maid whispering in a corner. As if caught kissing, the girl turned red and ran off.

  “Do you know where Lady Charlotte’s smelling salts are?”

  “Of course.” The good-looking butler’s face betrayed nothing, his demeanor exemplary, and within a minute he returned from an adjoining room with a small vial in his hand. “Is her ladyship unwell?” Something in the man’s tone irritated Jane.

  “Thank you.” She took the vial and hurried back to her hostess.

  6.

  “My lady!” Alison’s maid seemed to have been waiting for Jane, for she instantly rose from a chair in the corridor as Jane approached.

  Still mulling over what she’d seen and heard at dinner, Jane looked up in surprise. “Nora! Is Lady Alison all right?”

  Nora nodded. Her hair was covered with a white bonnet, and her black dress was trimmed with lace. Alison hated plain clothing. “Yes, my lady. Lady Alison would very much like to speak to you.”

  Jane heard Charlotte and Frederick’s voices. They seemed to be arguing in the library, and she heard the name of their son. “Gladly.”

  She found Alison dressed in a silk dressing gown, sitting in an armchair by the window of her bedroom. On the table in front of her were the remains of dinner, which Nora now cleared away. Ally’s long, blond hair was untied and tumbled over her shoulders, and Jane could not resist the urge to stroke it. “Thomas must love your hair!”

  Ally laughed brightly. “You flatterer! But you’re right, he does like it when I wear my hair down. Please, sit. Would you like something to drink? I’ve got a very nice port.”

  “That sounds like just the thing after an evening like this.” Jane fetched the bottle and one glass; because she was expecting, Alison was abstaining from alcohol. “Cheers!” Jane took a large swig. “What a family!”

  Propping her chin on her hand, Ally gazed at Jane with a concerned expression on her face. “Isn’t it? Have you also noticed the tension in the air here? And Charlotte’s attacks? Has she had another one?”

  “I am sad to say she has. I suggested calling a doctor, but she doesn’t want that. Is she so afraid of Frederick?”

  Alison clasped her hands in her lap. “Frederick has changed very much. I never really liked him, but he at least treated her well for a time.” It was clearly difficult for Alison to talk about the matter, but she looked her friend in the eye. “But ever since he has become obsessed with his orchids, he’s had no patience at all. The slightest noise from the children or the little dog will set him off. I feel so sorry for the poor animal, although I have never been much of a dog lover, unlike you. Those yapping little lapdogs, my God, they are so annoying. But I tell you, I would take Pebbles away with me with no hesitation whatsoever, just to finally give the poor beast some respite from that small devil Cedric.”

  Jane quickly relayed all that had happened at dinner, and Alison sighed. “Things like that happen all the time, but that isn’t why I wanted to talk to you. Jane, I didn’t tell you everything in my letter. I was concerned that if David had read it, he would never have let you drive up here at all.”

  Jane looked at her excitedly. “He didn’t want me to come up as it was, but that was mostly because of the weather. Why, have the Halstons got a skeleton in their closet?”

  It was intended as a joke, but the expression of deep concern on Alison’s face made Jane shudder.

  “I fear they do. A very big skeleton!” Alison whispered.

  “Ally! And you’re still here? I’ll send a telegram to Thomas immediately. He has to get you out of here!”

  “No, no, listen. When I first arrived, there was a very pretty maid who had been working here only for a few weeks. Her name was Rachel. I remember her very well because there was something foreign about her, and she seemed less easily intimidated than the others. In any case, she went out one night and never came back. She did not leave a note, and no one knows where she was planning to go. It’s a mystery!”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “A criminal mystery.” She clapped her hands, then quickly became serious. “Did she take her things with her? Have they questioned the staff? What about her family?”

  “Now you sound like a policeman. Oh, I am so happy to have you here, Jane. Charlotte said that Rachel has family in Crookham. They were sent a telegram, but there’s been no reply. She abandoned her last position, which does not speak in her favor. Charlotte told me that she had been employed at the Cunninghams’ in Devon.” Alison rolled her eyes.

  “The Cunninghams?” Jane knew the reputation of Lord Edward Cunningham’s sons. The Cunninghams’ country estate near Exeter was renowned for its debauched parties and hunting events.

  “That was my reaction, too. She must have had a good reason to run away, because I am sure they paid better than Sir Frederick. He’s very tightfisted. Charlotte has to account strictly for every penny, and I feel sorry for Mrs. Gubbins, the housekeeper, who has to arrange the salaries and household expenses with Sir Frederick once a month.”

  Jane sipped her port, which was sweet and strong. “If she ran away from there, we can assume that she is a decent girl and didn’t want one of the Cunninghams to get her pregnant.”

  Blushing, Alison nodded. “You’re always so direct.”

  “But that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? A young woman gets in a family way and loses her position. And if they don’t have a family to support them, they can either give the fatherless child away, which could mean bribing an orphanage with money that most of them don’t have, or they can sell the child, which many cannot bring themselves to do. Then mother and child end up in the poorhouse or out on the street. Did I leave anything out?” Jane brooded.

  “I don’t think so. Although it also happens that bastard children are simply killed.” Alison ran her hands gently over her swollen belly. “A horrible thought. But Rachel was not pregnant. I would have noticed; I’ve developed a bit of a sense for that.” She grinned. “You, at least, are not expecting.”

  Jane took a deep breath. “No, and if I were, I’d keep well away from you, simply to stop you from making an ungodly fuss in your glee!”

  “Then there’s a chance . . . ?” her friend probed carefully.

  “You mean?” Jane pursed her lips and slowly said, “Oh, yes, a chance, perhaps, one day . . .” She thought of the passion in David’s embrace and of his kisses, which did not stop at her face or breasts. In the beginning, his caresses had shocked her, but he quickly stripped away her modesty and spurred her desire for intimacy, for his touch.

  “Not another word, dearest. I understand. But I would not have expected anything else from a man like David. There’s a passionate man hiding beneath that cool, reserved façade, isn’t there?” Alison gave her friend a sly smile.

  Jane cleared her throat. “I never would have thought it possible, you know. I mean, that I would find being close to a man so eminently appealing . . . but we are getting a little off track, aren’t we? Rachel was not pregnant, so why did she run away? Did she receive a message?”

  Alison raised her eyebrows. “An interesting idea! I don’t know.”

  “Winton Park is certainly remote, and it’s not far to the moor proper from here. It is dangerous to stroll around alone out there at any time of the day or night, but it’s even more dangerous in the dark. If she left the house at night, then she must have had a very good reason to do so,” Jane mused aloud.

  “A lover!” Alison squealed.

  “The butler! You have noticed how handsome he is, haven’t you?”

  “Jane, really, don’t let David hear you say things like that! But yes . . .” Ally giggled. “I noticed immediately. Oh, and there’s a game
keeper, too. O’Connor. Nora prattles on about him all the time.”

  “We can’t start interrogating the men, though. That’s a job for Hettie,” said Jane with a smirk.

  Hettie unpacked the traveling case and smoothed out one of Jane’s more festive evening dresses. “Do you think you’ll be wearing this one at all, ma’am? From what I’ve heard here . . .” She clucked her tongue meaningfully.

  Wearily pulling combs out of her hair, Jane dropped them on the dressing table in front of her. “No need to build up the drama, Hettie. What have you found out?”

  “Well,” Hettie began, pulling a crumpled note out of her skirt pocket and unfolding it before Jane’s astonished eyes, “to start with, I had a bit of a chat with Nora, but she’s terribly shy, you know, and hardly says boo to anyone else in the house. Then I talked to Della, the young, dark-haired maid who does the washing.”

  Jane’s weariness evaporated in a heartbeat. She listened attentively to what Hettie had to report.

  “Della’s been here two years, she’s twenty-two, and she comes from Thwaite in Yorkshire. This is her second post, and she says it’s definitely not going to be her last.”

  “You’re so good at this, Hettie! What doesn’t she like about it here?” said Jane, patting her maid’s arm proudly.

  “It might be nothing at all, but as you always say, any detail could prove important. Della doesn’t like the housekeeper one little bit. It seems the domestic staff fall into two camps—those on Mrs. Gubbins’s side and those for the butler, Mr. Draycroft.”

  “Mrs. Gubbins?” Jane pondered for a moment. “I haven’t met her yet.”

  “She’s away right now visiting relatives, but she’ll be back tomorrow. Della says it’s been really nice without the old dragon here. The girls all sleep upstairs, under the eaves. They share three to a room. They can’t lock the doors, and Mrs. Gubbins combs their rooms regularly and checks that no one’s pilfering the silverware,” Hettie said.

  “Nothing unusual about that. Why doesn’t Della want to stay here?” Jane pressed.

  “Mainly because of Sir Frederick, I reckon. She finds him peculiar, the way he spends most of his time with his plants, and how he even speaks to them! And strange visitors often stop by. Rather dubious-looking characters, Della says, and she thinks it’s strange that a lord would associate with riffraff like that. And she says she knows riffraff when she sees them, because she grew up around people like that.”

  “Hmm, that certainly is striking. Although I imagine they could be orchid dealers,” said Jane thoughtfully.

  “D’you think so? I mean, when I remember that shop in London where all the lovely flowers were, and the gentleman who advised us . . .” Hettie trailed off. She waved the crumpled note back and forth.

  “Right again. There’s more? Go on.”

  “Mrs. Gubbins is Sir Frederick’s right hand. She was the housekeeper for his first wife. She’s jealous of the young mistress and the children, because the first Lady Halston couldn’t have children. Mrs. Gubbins has a daughter of her own, by the way. She’s currently away in India.” Jane raised her eyebrows in surprise, but Hettie folded the notepaper again. “I couldn’t find out any more because I had to go to dinner and then unpack.”

  Jane handed Hettie the hairbrush and pulled the pins from her hair, letting her long, chestnut mane fall free. While Hettie gently untangled it and brushed it out, Jane said, “That is very interesting, Hettie. A housekeeper who’s jealous of her new mistress. But we still must be suspicious of everyone living under this roof. And apart from that . . .” She sighed. “Apart from that, we don’t yet know what is making Charlotte so weak.”

  Hettie pulled the brush vigorously through Jane’s hair. “Poison!”

  “That’s the last thought I want to entertain. Emotional strain can also wear you down and make you sick. Oh, but I haven’t even told you a word about Rachel!”

  Hettie listened to Jane’s breathless story, then cried out, “Della wanted to say something about Rachel, too, but Mr. Draycroft came along, and then she fell silent.”

  A pretty maid and an attractive butler—a scenario rife with potential conflict.

  The next morning, the sky was still overcast, and the air was foggy and cold. Jane had breakfasted with Alison and was on her way to the drawing room to write a letter to David.

  “Good morning, Lady Jane!” Charlotte, coming from the kitchens, greeted Jane with a lackluster smile in the hall.

  “Good morning, Lady Charlotte. How are you feeling?” Jane asked.

  Charlotte waved off her concern, her petite, delicate hands making the gesture jittery. “Please, don’t fuss about my condition. The cold and the fog get to me, but that’s always been true. Maybe I should winter in Italy.” She laughed softly. “That would be a mad idea, wouldn’t it?”

  “Why not? It’s a very sensible idea if you ask me! If the climate there does you good and you come back recovered and full of vim and vigor, I’m sure your husband would be pleased, too.”

  Sir Frederick must have heard her last words, because he came out of the library with a frown on his face and met them in the hall. “What’s that I hear? What would I be glad about?”

  Jane ignored Charlotte’s nervous fluttering and said, “About a wife fortifying her constitution in Italy’s mild climate.”

  The tall man, wearing a coarse tweed suit and sturdy shoes, examined Jane through narrowed eyes. “Italy? You’re not planning to go off to that execrable land, are you, Charlotte? The place is positively overflowing with artists and other good-for-nothings!”

  “Oh, no! Nonsense! That was Lady Jane’s idea! I’m very happy here, you know that,” Charlotte reassured him emphatically and took his arm.

  Jane realized that there was little sense in pursuing the subject further. “Lady Charlotte, is it all right if I compose a letter in the drawing room?”

  “Of course! You’ll find everything you need there, and then you can leave your letter in the harlequin bowl on the escritoire. Mr. Draycroft will make sure that it is delivered to the post office.” Charlotte stroked her husband’s sleeve. “We still wanted to talk about Cedric, didn’t we?”

  “Hmm? Yes, that’s right,” Sir Frederick murmured reluctantly, and he accompanied his wife into a small sitting room.

  The graceful escritoire stood in a corner beside one of the terrace doors, but Jane still needed the light from a gas lamp because the heavy gray clouds let through little of the morning sun. The harlequin figure that decorated the bowl was easy to see, and at least its grin and colorful costume radiated some cheer.

  A stack of cut paper and envelopes lay beside a marble tray with pens and ink. Jane saw a handwritten page peeking from beneath a book of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and realized that Charlotte had started her own letter. Jane lifted the book briefly and caught a glimpse of the first line, which read, Honored Mama. It would have been interesting to find out whether Charlotte revealed anything more about her condition to her mother. But then again, the rather formal opening suggested that the mother-daughter relationship was not especially close.

  Jane heard someone discreetly clear his throat, and she dropped the book in surprise. Turning around, she discovered the butler standing in the doorway, holding a tray on which an envelope lay.

  “Excuse me, my lady, I don’t mean to intrude. This telegram has just arrived for you.”

  Mr. Draycroft wore his dark suit with the aplomb of an aristocrat. His eyes were unwavering, and Jane judged his appraising gaze as arrogant. He had only let his guard down briefly, however, before he immediately reassumed the impenetrable mask of the perfect servant. With a polite bow, he held the tray out to her.

  Jane took the telegram. “Thank you.”

  The butler departed as he had come—without a sound—and Jane tore open the envelope. “David!” she whispered, and read: Jane. Expecting message. David.

  She reread the spare message, but nothing about the imperious tone changed. Was she supp
osed to feel flattered that he had sent a telegram so soon? Or should she be indignant at his choice of words? Taking a deep breath, she folded the telegram and tucked it into her skirt pocket. It would be better not to reply in the mood she was in.

  7.

  Seymour Street, London, November 1860

  David sat at the breakfast table and flapped open the morning paper. The rustle seemed to fill the silence of the room, and he stared sullenly at the empty chair opposite him. Disinterestedly chewing a slice of toast, he scanned the headlines: Montgomery revolt on the Missouri; the annual meeting of the Lancashire and Cheshire Mechanics’ Institute was coming up; Garibaldi’s redshirts were advancing, and many more enthusiastic British volunteers were joining his troops.

  Brooding and distracted, David burned his mouth on his hot tea, swore, then turned the page. George Sand was seriously ill; Jane had read a number of her works. David turned a few more pages, pulling up short at a small article, one among many on the page. Crimes were committed every day in London, but had a murder victim ever before been decorated with an orchid?

  Orchids! David sniffed and thought of the yellow orchid that Jane had left for him. She had only given him the plant because that tiresome Sir Frederick grew them. Personally, he had little interest in the exotic, strangely formed things. He would choose an English rose over an orchid every time, and roses had the advantage of a captivating fragrance.

  He quickly read through the article about the murder. An employee of the highly respected nursery Veitch and Sons had been found dead the previous day in Nepenthes. An inspection of the body had revealed that the man, an orchid specialist, had been strangled with a hemp rope.

  Nepenthes? David read on and discovered that it was the name of a hothouse at the firm’s place of business. Its special irrigation and heating systems had made it the Mount Olympus of hothouses, according to The Gardeners’ Chronicle. The article went on to talk about the race to obtain the rarest orchids, and the honor accorded whoever possessed them. David lowered the newspaper. Good and honorable men went to war and lost their lives in the fight for freedom and for the glory of their homeland. But the newspaper fellows wrote about the honor attached to owning a flower! He would wager that not a single one of those effeminate hacks had ever set foot on a battlefield, killed an enemy, or watched a comrade die.