by Karen Odden
At the end of my tale, Anne looked troubled. “My goodness, your grandmother was ruthless. Your poor mother. And I have to say, I even feel sorry for your father.”
“But he wronged Mama,” I said. “I just think about her wondering all those years what she’d done to lose his love—when the problem was she’d never really had it to begin with.”
A sudden consciousness came to Anne’s expression.
“What?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Just the way you said it. It’s terribly sad. I’ve always resented her unkindness to you—but it does put things in a different light, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. I feel sorry for her too.”
Anne broke off a piece of her scone. “Are you going to tell Mr. Flynn?”
“No,” I said. “Not yet anyway. Although I did tell Paul to tell him about Mr. Hayes.”
“And I asked Father about the purchase. He said that Mr. Pinsley had received an offer from the railway, but Mr. Hayes stepped in with ready money, so he sold it to him. Does that help you?”
So Mr. Hayes had scooped the land out from under the railway’s nose.
“I think so,” I said. “Did your father tell you Mr. Hayes’s first name?”
“Marcus.” She pointed to the table beside me. “Pass me that sketchbook, would you?”
I gave it to her, and she flipped some pages, then handed it back to me. “Here. I made this for you yesterday. He has a memorable face.”
I studied the portrait. He was not unattractive—a strong jaw, intelligent dark eyes, and a well-formed mouth. But there was something uncompromising and impatient about his expression.
“How old would you say he is?” I asked.
“About forty, I’d say, or a bit less; he’s quite tall, but he’s the sort of man who will probably be stout in ten years.” She carefully tore out the page and put it in a pasteboard portfolio. “Now, you should eat something. You’re beginning to look as brittle as I used to feel.”
—
On my way home, I calculated. There were only seventeen days left until Parliament would decide the fate of the railway. Given that I’d passed along the names of Hayes and Pinsley, I was fairly sure that Mr. Flynn, with his resources, would have found out by now who they were; but he might not yet know how Hayes managed to buy the land the railway wanted. And he certainly didn’t know the reasons for the enmity between my father and Lord Shaw. I wouldn’t tell Mr. Flynn everything, of course, but I could tell him enough.
At the telegraph office, I spent twenty minutes scribbling and scratching out several messages, trying to figure out how to phrase my message in a way that Mr. Flynn would understand, but wouldn’t give anything away to the telegraph operator. I had no desire to be the source of more gossip. Finally, hoping that Mr. Flynn would remember our conversation in Travers, I settled on this:
LADY LOVED AND LOST MARRIED AS IN 1852. STOP. H TRUMPED GSE, PURCHASED P LAND EST FOUR MONTHS AGO READY MONEY. STOP. ELIZABETH.
I pushed the form through the window to the operator, waited for him to count my words and calculate the charge, and paid for the telegram with shillings from my purse. Then, feeling as if a weight had been lifted, I got back into the gig, with no plan other than to go straight home.
But the road from the telegraph station crossed the lane that led to Shadwell Manor.
Impulsively, I tugged on the reins and turned Athena onto it.
Chapter 19
Not for the first time, I thought that Shadwell Manor was a beautiful dwelling, patrician and sedate, rather sharply at odds with the source of their wealth. The Shaws had made their entire fortune in the slave trade back in the 1700s—an ugly blot in their history that they disavowed as best they could. Built of Portland limestone, the house stood three graceful stories, with round turrets and a pair of curved staircases ascending to the front door.
Involuntarily I slowed as I drove up. A mixture of anxiety and guilt was twisting my stomach into a knot, and I felt my hands dampen inside my gloves. Common courtesy would require that the butler open the door and take my card; but Lord Shaw might very well send back word that he “wasn’t home” for me. That would be somewhat embarrassing but not damaging. But if he deigned to meet me? He might—quite justifiably—hate the very sight of me and relish the private opportunity to hurl my father’s misdeeds in my face. And if this went badly, our occasional meetings in society could be very unpleasant. But so long as there was a chance that Lord Shaw might let slip anything about the problems with the takeover, I had to try. I took some courage from the fact that I had two cards up my sleeve. First, he would probably be curious about why I was here and would see me, if only for a few minutes. Second, he had no idea what I knew about my father and his wife. I could simply pretend that I knew nothing about any past animosity, and ordinary civility would demand that he’d share in the deception.
Wouldn’t it?
I dismounted and gave my reins to the boy who appeared from the side of the house. As I climbed the stairs, I rehearsed what I might say, and how I must draw an impervious line in my mind between what I could safely reveal and what I must hold back.
The door opened.
The butler was a stout, elderly man with a pasty face, an impeccable waistcoat, and a fringe of gray hair around his ears. He had no doubt been trained to remain expressionless, but his eyes widened slightly to see a young woman he didn’t recognize, unaccompanied no less, asking for Lord Shaw. I could see him searching his memory; I put an end to the poor man’s chagrin by handing him my card.
His eye flickered uncertainly to me and back to the bit of pasteboard before he bowed. “Ah, Lady Elizabeth Fraser. I will see if Lord Shaw is at home.”
“Thank you.”
He returned a few moments later and offered to lead me to the parlor. I stifled my sigh of relief and followed him.
The room was decorated in a style that felt gloomily masculine to me, and I wondered whether it had always been so or had been altered after Lady Shaw died. The windows were curtained by thick olive panels with a valance that dropped low; there was a great deal of over-sized, club-footed furniture, and too few lamps for reading or embroidery. Over the fireplace hung a Landseer painting, just like in my father’s study, though this one wasn’t a hunting scene with dogs, but a regal buck surveying the forest with lifted head.
So Lady Hester hadn’t been the only taste my father and Lord Shaw had in common.
A quarter of an hour passed, and I remained poised on the edge of one of the brocaded chairs that faced the door. Whether Lord Shaw intended to increase my discomfort or not, with each passing minute, I felt more nervous and less certain that I could keep my thoughts fixed where they needed to be.
Finally the curved brass door-handle turned, and I rose as the master of the house stepped into the room.
He was too well bred to stare, but after he closed the door, he made his way slowly toward me, giving each of us time to observe the other. I believe it was the first time I had seen him in at least a year; it was certainly the first time I observed him with any particular interest.
He appeared closer to sixty than fifty, so a good decade older than my father had been; he was of medium height, clean-shaven, and dressed in a dove-colored coat that had been skillfully cut to conceal a waist that was running slightly to fat. His face was round, with beetling eyebrows above gray eyes and a bulbous nose; his silvery hair was receding from his temples. His movements were deliberate, and my impression was that he was intelligent and watchful; that he had learned from his life experiences to keep his own counsel; that he would do nothing impulsively. As he drew near, I observed his expression. There was wariness, to be sure, but nothing vitriolic, and certainly nothing to suggest that he was concealing years of fury behind his polite smile.
I gave myself a mental shake. For god’s sake, he wasn’t a villain in a Wilkie Collins novel.
He inclined his head in a way that was almost courtly. “Lady Elizabeth. I’m sor
ry to have kept you waiting. Please sit down.” He gestured to the chair behind me and took one opposite. He held himself stiffly, and I realized he was probably just as uncomfortable as I was.
The thought dissipated some of my nervousness, and I tried to bring some warmth to my voice. “Lord Shaw, it’s very good of you to see me without an appointment. I imagine you’re somewhat surprised.”
“Surprised, yes, but not displeased, certainly, at a visit from a neighbor,” he replied. “I’m glad to see you looking well. I heard you were in the accident. How is your mother?”
The words were what anyone might say, but there was something about his manner that seemed painfully unnatural. Still, he was being quite civil, which was—I reminded myself—more than I had a right to expect. “I’m perfectly well, thank you,” I answered. “Mama is still feeling the effects, but the doctor says she should be better soon.”
“Very good.” He nodded.
There was an uncomfortable pause during which I felt myself flush. But I took a deep breath and resolutely plunged ahead:
“Lord Shaw, I must confess, I’ve come to ask a favor.”
His expression became guarded. However, he kept his voice expressionless. “Anything I can do to help you.”
“I know that you were on the board of the London-Redfield back in 1862, before it was purchased by the Great Southeastern. My father was on the board as well, if you recall.”
His body went rigid, and in his face I saw a flash of feeling that made my nervousness return, but I rushed on: “I’ve heard that the takeover was somewhat difficult and fraught with questions. I was wondering if you might tell me any of the particulars that you remember about those discussions.”
He blinked several times. “May I ask why you want to know?”
I gave him the reason I’d prepared: “I suppose it might sound strange and even a bit morbid, but after the accident, I’ve found myself wondering if my father had anything to do with placing the tracks by the banks of the river.” I lowered my gaze to my gloved hands and added softly, “I suppose I am hoping he would have tried to prevent it.”
“I see.” His voice held a peculiar note, and I looked up to find him watching me curiously. I remained very still, my eyes never leaving his, and after a moment he gave a small grimace. “I’m very sorry, but I’m not sure I can help you. I don’t remember your father’s views in particular. I left the board, you see, before the takeover took place.”
“You left?” I echoed, as if in surprise. “May I ask why?”
“Well, there was a vote, as is usual in these cases.” He held his hands as if they were scales, to suggest a sort of justice about the process. “Afterward, several of us were asked to step down. Frankly, it was probably for the best.” His tone was sanguine. “I don’t know much about railways, and it gave me more time to focus on other things—things that, ultimately, were more profitable.”
Had my father been one of those who had voted to remove him? And was Lord Shaw really as indifferent as he appeared?
“Who else was asked to step down?” I asked. “Do you remember?”
His expression was apologetic. “I’m afraid I don’t. No one I knew particularly well.” He gave a quick glance at the clock and then turned back to me.
I sensed we were approaching the end of my visit.
“Do you recall any of the discussions about where track would be laid?” I asked. “Or any other significant issues?”
“Oh, my.” He frowned. “This was so long ago.” The fingers of his right hand tapped on the chair arm, and his eyes narrowed as he thought. “I recall there were some surveyors hired, which was quite usual, to plan the line. And I do remember the railway decided not to buy some marshland to the southwest. You see,” he said helpfully, “marshland can be built upon, but you have to fill it in first. The general consensus was that it would have been too expensive.”
I filed away the bit about the marshland to tell Mr. Flynn and thought I might press just a bit further. “Can you think of anyone who was particularly angry about decisions the board made? Someone who might still be harboring a grudge, perhaps?”
“A grudge against the railway?” His eyebrows rose, and he gave a genuine laugh. “The railway is a business, not a person, my dear. It’s quite simple, actually; everything is a matter of profits. But really…” His voice dwindled. He tipped his head and looked at me in some perplexity. “What has put you on this—er, train of thought, as it were?”
I smiled at his gibe and thought quickly. I could truthfully mix together public knowledge and personal confidence. “After the accident, Mama and I were taken to the Travers Inn, where we stayed for several days because Mama had a badly sprained ankle. While we were there, everyone was talking about the accident, and I overheard someone—a newspaperman, I believe—saying that Parliament had created a committee to look into it. He said their investigation might go all the way back to the takeover of the London-Redfield”—I observed him especially as I concluded—“and that this accident might have greater implications for the Great Southeastern and railway safety more generally.”
His expression remained bland. “Ah, I see. Well, I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to the railway question these days—although, to be sure,” he added, “Parliament should do everything they can to prevent further accidents. They’re becoming so common.” He glanced at the clock again and stood. “I do beg your pardon, but I have an appointment shortly.”
“Of course.” I gathered my gloves and purse. “Thank you for seeing me, and for answering my questions. I appreciate it.”
“It was my pleasure,” he replied cordially and walked me to the front door himself. “Please give my best to your mother.” His manner had thawed remarkably, and his smile and bow were quite natural.
Perhaps he was only awkward and shy.
The door shut, and I took several deep breaths as I made my way down the steps and into the gig.
He’d given me very little new information about the railway except the bit about the surveyor and marshland; but he didn’t seem at all resentful over being asked to leave the railway board. And unless he was very good at dissembling, it seemed he harbored no ill will toward my family. It seemed impossible that he could have had any idea about the illicit relations between my father and his wife.
It was an enormous relief.
Yet as I drove home, turning the conversation over in my mind, I felt twinges of discomfort as I tried to reconcile the animosity that I thought had existed between Lord Shaw and my father with Lord Shaw’s apparent placidity. Was it a façade, expertly managed? Or were my childhood impressions mistaken? Or had the animosity existed only on my father’s side? I couldn’t quite make the pieces fit, and underneath it all was a nagging unease. It took the remainder of the drive before I could pinpoint why: I knew more about a man’s dead wife than he did.
Chapter 20
The next morning was Wednesday, the day Mr. Wilcox said he might check on Mama. So when Sally told me, as she was helping me dress, that I’d find an early bird in the breakfast room, I turned so hastily that her hands lost their place on the buttons. “Mr. Wilcox is here already?”
“Mr. Wilcox?” Sally looked bewildered.
“The surgeon from Travers,” I reminded her. “He said he might come back today.”
Sally gave me an odd look. “I meant Mr. James, m’lady. He took the express train up late last night. Arrived just after midnight, but you know him. He’s been up since six.”
My heart sank. Stupid of me, I thought. Of course Paul wouldn’t be here at this hour. Besides, he would probably send the medicine by messenger, or leave it at the train station for us to retrieve. After all, he’d said there was nothing he could do that Jane couldn’t manage just as well. Why would he come back?
I entered the breakfast room to find my cousin drinking his tea and studying one of the London papers through his spectacles.
“Hello, James.” I took a seat and unfolded my nap
kin.
He looked up with a smile. “Good morning.” His eyes went to my forehead. “The plaster is smaller.”
I nodded. “Did you come to see your mother? She sits with Mama in the mornings.”
He folded his newspaper into a tidy rectangle. “Well, I do have things to discuss with her—but I came mostly to see you.”
My breath caught. “You heard from Mr. Turleigh?”
“I had a visit from him, actually, yesterday afternoon.” James poured himself some tea and then pushed the pot toward me. “He apologized for the delay, but he was in Bath visiting relations. He was quite eager to talk with me, though. You know how his white beard begins to bob, and his voice sounds like a bleat when he’s at all excited.”
I gave a small laugh. “I know. Anthony always says he reminds him of a billy goat.”
James grinned wryly. “An apt comparison.”
I leaned forward. “Well?”
“Well.” He sat back in his chair. “I found out some rather interesting things about provisions for you—things I’d never heard before.” He ran his fingertips along the table’s edge. “First of all, your uncle Charles left you three hundred and fifty pounds in a special trust in his will. Did you know that?”
I felt my eyes widen. “I didn’t think he had anything but debts when he died.”
“Well, apparently he had three hundred and fifty pounds, and he left them to you.”
“That’s—odd.” I couldn’t tell James what was truly odd—the fact that this was the second time in one week that Uncle Charles was making a significant appearance in my life.
“Not to mention that he left it to you free and clear, without conditions.” He looked at me meaningfully. “No one else can touch it. Not your future husband, not your mother, not your cousin Colin. No marriage is required, and you need not be in England to claim it. The will states very explicitly that you may take the money anywhere you wish and spend it any way you like.”
