by Karen Odden
“Yes, m’lady. I’ve been expecting you might.”
Surprised, I turned to face him. “Why do you say that?”
His eyes were still on Athena. “Sally told me you’d been asking about your father, and I figured it warn’t long ’afore you come to ask me about it too.”
“Oh.” I rested my forearms on the fence. “Well, it’s not only because of what Sally told me, I’m afraid.” I took a deep breath. “I saw Lord Shaw at the courthouse after the trial. We only spoke for a few minutes, but he was very unpleasant. Frightening, even. And he said something that I can’t get out of my mind. He said that we are all victims of fraud and betrayals at some point in our lives. But sometimes the world deals out justice more fairly than the courts do.” I saw a faint tightening around Martin’s mouth. “I think he was talking about my father’s death,” I added quietly. “He still hates him.”
“Aye. He would.”
“Martin, what did you see the day my father died?”
He rubbed a rough hand over his face before answering. “No one else knows this. Not even Sally.”
“And you don’t want me to tell her.”
“Nae. We tell each other most everything, but I don’t want anyone else knowing this, m’lady.” His eyes met mine. “So far as I see it, no one has a right to know but you.”
My mouth went dry. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
He leaned over, plucked a long spear of grass, and began to knot it. He always spoke slowly, but I could tell he was choosing his words with especial care. “D’you know where I found your father that day?”
“No.” I thought back. “In fact, I don’t remember anyone saying. I always assumed he was on one of the trails beyond the river.”
“Aye, that’s where he liked to ride mostly. But that day he was riding in the back acres.” A flush came into his cheek, and he kept his eyes on the knots he was making. “The part nearest Lord Shaw’s property.”
So he knew about my father’s infidelity.
“You think Father was on his way to see Lady Shaw,” I said steadily.
He made a rough sound in the back of his throat that approximated a dissent. “ ’Twas a rainy day, and hoofprints in the mud showed he was comin’ home.” His fingers turned the grass into a neat loop. “Except might be he didn’t only see Lady Shaw that afternoon. Might be he saw Lord Shaw, who’d come back from Scotland three days earlier than he was s’posed to.” He met my gaze, his expression pained. “You know your father was one of the best riders in this part of England. He could stick a horse flying over the moon. He’d never just fall off a horse he owned, going over land he knew—not unless something mighty unusual happened.”
Hesitantly, I spoke the words he seemed unwilling to utter: “You don’t think it was an accident, do you? You think Lord Shaw came back early and found them together, and he—he”—I choked on the word—“killed Father on his way home.”
I half-expected Martin to deny it, or hedge, or scoff at me for being melodramatic. He did none of those things. He merely shook his head unhappily. “Mind ye, there’s nowt to say for absolute sartin, and there’s no way to prove it, leastwise anymore.”
My trembling fingers picked at a splinter on the fence. “What do you mean, anymore?”
With a sigh, he flung aside the piece of grass and turned to face me. “Jupiter’d come back to the stables on his own that afternoon, all in a lather, and with a bad gash on his left fore. Soon as I saw him, I got Timothy, and we went out looking for your father. When we finally found him, I didn’t look around, being that all I cared about was getting him home as quick as I could. But later, I went back because it didn’t seem right, your father fallin’ off a horse—’specially Jupiter, who was sure-footed as they come in the mud.”
“I remember,” I said. “That’s why Father liked him so much for hunting. He never rode any other horse if it might rain.”
He nodded. “Then I got to thinking. The doctor said it looked there was a bit of tree bark in your father’s hair where the cut was. ’Cept there warn’t a tree where I found him—leastwise not near enough for Jupiter to have throwed him into, or for him to hit his head on. So I went back and looked careful-like at the ground, thinking maybe I’d find a branch lyin’ there. I didn’t find a branch. But there were hoofprints. From a horse heavier than Jupiter.”
My breath caught.
“Now, I could see how, if your father fell off, Jupiter might get spooked and come home in a lather like he did. Mebbe he’d even cut himself on something. But seeing those other hoof-prints in the dirt made me wonder. So I went back to the barn and took a better look at the cut on Jupiter’s left fore. It had been made by something sharp. Could’ve been a horseshoe. And then I heard from the groom over at Shadwell Manor that Lord Shaw’s stallion came back that afternoon with a cut like this”—he curved the fingers of his left hand into the shape of a C—“on his withers.”
A new picture flashed into my head then—of two horses whirling on each other—Lord Shaw confronting my father—wielding a branch hastily snatched from somewhere between the house and the field—
I felt cold prickles over my entire body. All of me recoiled at the thought of it—
For whether it had been a blow struck in the heat of the moment or something even more calculated, if Martin was right, Lord Shaw had killed my father and concealed his role in his death. My heart was beating with hard, heavy thuds. It was almost too much for me to take in, and Martin must have known, for he let me be for a long time. Finally, I looked up at him. His face was furrowed with sorrow.
“M’lady, I’m not telling you this to cause you more heartache, god knows. And there’s no way to say for sartin that Lord Shaw went out there, meaning to kill him. But Lady Fraser—your mother—”
My hand clutched at his arm. “My god, she knew? That Lord Shaw had killed Father?”
“More than that,” he said, his voice rough as gravel.
I could only stare.
“What could’ve brung Lord Shaw back from Scotland three days early, m’lady?”
Bewildered, I cast about for a reasonable answer. “Well—maybe—something to attend to, I imagine.”
“What about a letter,” he said. “Mebbe from someone who knew how your father was carryin’ on.”
There could be only one reason for the pity I found in his gaze.
“My mother.” It came out in a whisper.
He nodded. “Old Mr. Roberts don’t collect so many letters that he can’t remember who sent what. He saw a letter from Kellham Park marked to Lord Shaw in Scotland. He took ’special note of it, he told me, because the address was writ so ill, he had to study it to figure where to send it.”
My fingers wrapped around the rough wood of the rail.
So Mama sent a letter to Lord Shaw, and he came back early. Had she hoped that Lord Shaw would confront my father and shame him into behaving properly? Or shame his wife into abandoning my father? Or—
Or had her hope been for exactly what happened?
I let out a low cry and dropped my forehead onto the backs of my hands.
“Nae,” Martin said, his soft voice drawing out the syllable. “I doubt she could’a seen what might come from her sending it. I think she was just a young missus, trying to change summat, the only way she knew how. She wanted your father away from that woman and back in his own house. That’s all.”
I felt Athena’s warm breath on my ear. Startled, I raised my head, and she lipped at my hand for a treat.
“Sorry,” I whispered, showing her my empty hands.
Disgruntled, Athena nudged at Martin’s shirtfront, and he pulled a bit of apple out of his pocket. She crunched it up, and his large hand stroked her nose absently. “I know Lady Fraser had her share o’ troubles when she was young. But the trouble she brung about on her own, that’s a worse sort to bear. To have that letter on her conscience, to know what happened because she sent it, and to keep it a secret from every other living
soul…” He was quiet for a moment, and I heard Athena snorting. “I’m thinking, if she’s been troubled since your father died—well, it has nowt to do with you.”
A heavy silence fell between us. At last he asked, “M’lady, was I wrong to tell you?”
Sally had asked me the same question. I saw Martin’s worried face and realized that I had to reassure him. I’d come out here looking for the truth, and he’d given me what I’d asked for. “No, Martin. I needed to know.”
“It’s a hard thing, telling something like that,” he said. “Like a bell once rung, it cain’t be undone. But I kept comin’ back to thinking you’re not a child anymore, like when it first happened. You’ve a right to know the truth.”
I managed a nod. “Thank you. Now I just need some time to think about it.”
“Aye.” He opened his mouth as if to say something else and shut it again. With his face full of sympathy, he gave my arm a clumsy pat, gathered up his tools, and left.
My thoughts were catching on fragments of memories, like a leaf snagged on one rock and then another in a stream.
What had my mother said that first morning we were home, when I had come in from riding Athena? “I sent for him—oh, god—I sent for him—you need to find him—warn him—”
I finally understood. They’d been two different men—one she had sent for and one she wanted to warn.
My poor mama.
I uncurled my palms from the rail, and my fingers tingled painfully as the blood returned to them. The sun was beginning to drop behind the trees, and I shivered.
But it was not only the air that chilled me. The initial shock had worn off, and I was beginning to think about what I’d learned and what it meant, not only for the past but for the present. Lord Shaw was a deceitful man, certainly, and embittered; but he was a dangerous one too, capable of murder when he felt thwarted and angry.
And what had the trial done but made him feel that all over again?
Mr. Flynn and I had been thinking all along that Hayes was the unscrupulous mastermind behind the railway scheme—that it was he who’d had no compunction about having Mr. Palmer thrown from a train and Mr. Griffin killed and Mr. Flynn threatened. But what if Lord Shaw was complicit—or even the instigator?
Hayes might be in custody for questioning, but Lord Shaw was not, and surely he suspected that Mr. Flynn was close to uncovering the railway scheme. Infuriated as he was by the outcome of the trial, he might have no qualms about ordering him killed. Just as he’d had no qualms about seeing Paul imprisoned for manslaughter.
It was Wednesday afternoon; the Parliamentary meeting was on Friday morning; if anything were to happen, it would be in the next thirty-six hours.
I needed to get word to Mr. Flynn tonight.
I pushed myself away from the fence with a suddenness that made Athena jump. Picking up my skirts, I ran for the stables. Martin wasn’t there, but Timothy was, mucking out one of the stalls.
“Timothy, I need a telegram sent,” I said breathlessly. “I know you have chores, but can you go?”
He looked at me in surprise, his two hands on the pitchfork. “Of course, m’lady. Should I finish here first?”
“No, it’s important. I’ll explain to Martin why you’ve left.” I bit my lip. “Do you have paper and pencil?”
He leaned the pitchfork against the wall, went to the table where Martin kept his records, and found both for me. As I thanked him, I could feel him gazing at me curiously. I knew I looked flushed and disheveled. But all he said was, “You write it out, m’lady, while I saddle up.”
My palms were so damp that the pencil slid in my grasp. I wiped my hand on my skirt and marshaled my thoughts to compose a message with a warning that I hoped Mr. Flynn would take seriously. Timothy didn’t even glance at what I’d written; he merely folded the paper, put it in his pocket, and left immediately.
Only then did I go back to the house.
Chapter 39
I hadn’t been in my room twenty minutes when there was a soft knock at my door. I felt a spasm of annoyance. I’d told Sally to be sure I wasn’t disturbed.
“Yes?” I called impatiently.
The door opened, and Anne’s face appeared. “May I come in?”
I smiled and beckoned. “Of course.”
She closed the door behind her, took off her cloak, and laid it on my bed. “How are you?”
“I’m all right.” I realized I hadn’t even thanked her yet for bringing Mr. Drewe to Travers. “And I’m ever so grateful to you and Philip.”
She sat facing me on the window seat, a foot tucked beneath her. “Well, the benefits weren’t solely on your side. It did Philip some good, too.”
I was glad to hear that. “To get out of his room, you mean?”
“To get out of his own misery and do something for someone else—something that succeeded for a change.” She took a deep breath. “But, Elizabeth, I have something to confess to you, and—and I’m afraid it’s going to make you unhappy.”
I had a feeling I already knew. And because I loved her, I tried to make it easy. “You’re going back to Venwell, aren’t you, and taking Philip.”
She sighed. “How did you know?”
“Your paintings were a good clue.”
“My paintings?” She looked puzzled.
“The girl and the sheep were all running away and wandering off,” I reminded her.
She laughed, then, a bit ruefully. “Trust you to notice that.”
“When are you leaving?” I asked.
“Tomorrow, on the 10:16 train.”
I sat up. “Tomorrow?”
Her expression instantly became apologetic. “I know! I’m sorry about giving you so little warning. Honestly, Elizabeth, I was going to tell you straightaway when I came back that I was planning on leaving again, but you were so miserable and shaken by that terrible accident—and then Mr. Wilcox was accused, and you and James were trying to prepare for his trial, and I could see how wretched you were. I didn’t want to pile something else on.”
“I—understand.”
“There’s part of me that would love to stay here with you,” she said regretfully. “In fact, when I first came home, I was thinking I’d stay through June. But Philip needs to get away, and I think he’ll be better if I’m with him.”
I remembered Philip leaning against the mantel, looking as if he could barely stand on his own. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“It didn’t take much to win him over to the idea,” Anne said. “In fact, he wanted to leave almost immediately. So we struck a bargain. I promised that if he took me to see Mr. Wilcox’s trial, we would leave the very minute we could get our things together.”
I sat back slowly, understanding what she’d left unsaid. “You knew that once he saw the trial, he’d agree to help.”
“I didn’t know, of course, but I hoped he might.”
“Anne, you have been so good through all of this,” I said, giving her hand a grateful squeeze. “I can’t say I’m glad that you’re going, but I know it’s good for you, and it’ll be healthy for Philip. It’s just—you’ll be so terribly far away again.”
“Yes, but I want you to come soon and stay for a long visit. Would you?”
“My aunt has already talked about me getting away somewhere,” I admitted. “She suggested the Lake Country with the Lowells….”
She looked dismayed. “The Lowells? Well, he’s all right, but she’s dreadful.”
“Or I can go to Edinburgh with my aunt and uncle.”
“Do that,” she said instantly. “And then come to me.”
“I will, if they’ll let me. But that doesn’t solve the problem.”
She tipped her head. “What problem?”
“What to do with myself afterward.”
“Well, what would you like to do?”
“I don’t know. James asked me to marry him last night.”
Anne didn’t seem at all surprised. “I thought he might.”
“Really? I wasn’t expecting it at all. We haven’t—exactly—been agreeing lately.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I needed to think. He was quite decent about it, actually. He knows I have feelings for Paul, and that I might have no dowry to speak of after Friday, and he still wants to marry me.”
“He’s a good man,” Anne said hesitantly.
“He is. But I can’t—I shouldn’t—marry James when I love Paul.” Just saying it aloud brought tears to my eyes and a tightness to my throat. “And I don’t know if I can stop loving him. Right now, it’s like an ache. I try not to think about him, but when I do, it’s as if I’ve been thrown from a horse, and I’m just lying on the ground, trying to breathe.”
“Oh, Elizabeth.” Her face was full of sympathy.
The tears spilled onto my cheeks. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye. James told me I couldn’t.”
“Philip went to see him, you know.”
That made me gasp, and I dashed the tears away. “Philip went to see Paul? When?”
“The day after the trial. Mr. Wilcox still has some patients at the Travers Inn, so he’s staying there for a few days before going back to London. When Philip heard that Mr. Wilcox had been with Felix at the end, he wanted to talk to him.”
“Of course he would. What did Paul say?”
“That he kept Felix comfortable. That Felix seemed grateful to be free of pain, and his mother was holding his hand when he died. It made Philip feel better.”
“I’m glad of that.”
Outside the window a cluster of cawing birds rose from the elms, drew into a wedge, and vanished into the darkening sky.
“How many times do you think we’ve sat at this window,” Anne murmured, “watching the sun fall behind those trees?”
“Hundreds, I suppose.”
Neither of us said what we were thinking: that this might be the last time we sat here together, at least for a long while. Finally, she reached over and touched my hand. “I need to go. I promised Philip I’d help him finish packing.”
I walked her down to the front door and kissed her. “Give Philip my love, and thank him again. I know how much courage it took to do what he did.”
