Murder at Morrington Hall

by Clara McKenna

  She stared straight into his eyes. “I pity you, Lord Lyndhurst,” she whispered back. It was not what he’d expected her to say. He prepared his retort, but the brightness in her eyes stayed his tongue. “I will go and change and wash off the manure, but you, sir, will always be full of it.”

  Lyndy burst out laughing.

  She turned her back on him, took the maid’s offered arm, and proceeded toward the house. Lyndy, captivated by the strength in her retreating back and the slight sway to her curving hips, stood rooted to the ground.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, still chuckling at her wit. He spied the pink racing sheet tucked into his pocket as he turned back toward the stables. He pulled it out, snapped it to its full length and glanced down at yesterday’s numbers. Tiresome had come in fourth. “I owe Westwoode a guinea.”

  And I owe Papa an apology. That little American might be a good match for me, after all.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tom Heppenstall dried the pint glass with his fist and towel pressed inside until it squeaked. With a quick glance at the clock on the shelf behind him, he set the glass upside down in the wooden cabinet with the others. He grabbed for the next, but there were none. With no more glasses to dry, he set to vigorously rubbing down the same two feet of the wooden bar in front of him. The publican’s eyes weren’t on his task but on the door. It was half past, and that good-for-nothing boy who was supposed to be working for him hadn’t arrived yet. That made four times late in so many days. Of course, the boy always had an excuse: ponies were blocking the road; his dad had him weeding the vegetable patch, and he’d lost track of time; his mum burnt his pasty, and he had to wait for her to bake another. Tom didn’t care what the boy was really up to, though he suspected the butcher’s daughter might have something to do with it, but he couldn’t have someone unreliable working for him. No matter the excuse the boy had prepared for him today, he might have to let him go.

  Tom took his eyes off the door and looked about the pub. Luckily, it was quiet yet. Only Old Joe at the end of the bar and that grockle in the corner, nursing a half. Tom glanced again at the door—where is that boy?—and then back at the grockle. With his cap pulled low on his forehead, the stranger stared into his bitter. How long had the grockle been coming in here? Two, three days? Outsiders wandered in now and then, but this grockle seemed different. He sat in the taproom when, by the cut of his tweeds, the bloke should prefer the lounge. He came, too, when it was quiet, and left as soon as the men arrived in from the fields. Rarely spoke and hardly drank anything either.

  In Tom’s twenty-two years behind the bar of the Knightwood Oak, he’d seen his share of troubled souls. He was as sure that the timbers above his head would be holding up the ceiling long after he was gone as he was that this fellow was one of those troubled souls. Today the bloke’s hands had been trembling when he’d placed his tuppence on the bar. What caused a grown man to shake like an oak leaf in the winter wind? “Grockles bring trouble, bring change,” his dad used to say, and Tom found it too often to be true. The publican didn’t know what this fellow had done, and didn’t want to know, for that matter, but something told him the sooner this fellow moved on, the better. Tom glanced at the clock again as the door flew open and crashed against the wall, making a bloody racket, like a gale off the Solent wanting in. And in with it came the boy, ducking his head as he stepped through.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Heppenstall. Pigs escaped their pen, and I had to round them up.”

  The publican threw his towel on the bar and planted his fists on his hips. Grockles nothing. This local lad was enough trouble for him to deal with.

  * * *

  With her gloves in her lap, Stella dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Otherwise, she’d cry, and she hated it when she cried. After the fiasco at the stables, she’d changed into her favorite linen and lace tea dress; the embroidered lavender flower swirls usually made her feel like a walking garden. But trapped in the drawing room, a chilly room with vaulted ceilings and dark, heavy furniture, surrounded by portraits of men and women in lace collars or redcoat uniforms with the same stony gaze as that of the woman sitting across from her, Stella decided that the swirls on her dress reflected the nausea in the pit of her stomach.

  “Ah, Mrs. Westwoode, Miss Westwoode.” Lady Atherly set aside the book in her lap, Wellington, Soldier and Statesman, and addressed two women Stella hadn’t met yet.

  The matron, Mrs. Westwoode, her pale green and gray dress cleverly paired with the gray streaks in her golden blond hair, sashayed into the room. The congenial smile faded quickly from her face. Her daughter’s gaze never left the bold red and gold patterned carpet. Miss Westwoode, several years Stella’s junior and endowed with an enviable hourglass figure, would never be the beauty her mother was. Her hair was mousy colored, her nose was bulbous, and her cheeks were plump.

  “May I present Miss Stella Kendrick . . .” Lady Atherly hesitated, as if the words were difficult to form in her mouth. “My son’s intended.” Stella flinched at those words. None of the women seemed to notice. “Miss Kendrick, may I present my good friend Mrs. Caroline Westwoode and her daughter, Miss Elizabeth Westwoode?”

  “It’s nice to meet-,” Stella began as the Westwoode women arranged themselves on adjacent green velvet, carved mahogany chairs.

  “Likewise, I am sure, my dear,” Mrs. Westwoode said, glancing in Stella’s direction before patting her daughter’s knee. “My daughter is fiancée to Lord Hugh, second son of the Duke of Tonnbridge.”

  What did Stella care about the betrothal of a stranger, considering her own unbearable situation?

  Mrs. Westwoode added, “Who will marry first? I wonder.”

  Stella bit back the retort on her tongue. Not me. I’m never going to marry Lord Lyndhurst. She welcomed the anger that washed over her. If nothing else, it kept the self-pity and the tears at bay. But Mrs. Westwoode apparently never intended to wait for Stella’s reply.

  “Where are the men?” The matron glanced about the drawing room, as if Lord Atherly, Lyndy, and the others were hiding behind the couch and she had missed seeing them upon her arrival.

  “I requested the gentlemen join us at quarter past so that we ladies may get acquainted,” Lady Atherly said.

  “Isn’t your vicar joining us?” Mrs. Westwoode said, looking around the room again.

  “Yes, as I said,” Lady Atherly said. “At quarter past.”

  “He was quite charming at luncheon, but I admit I was quite surprised to learn you’re allowing him to officiate at Lord Lyndhurst’s wedding. The Duke of Tonnbridge insists we have no one less than the Bishop of Winchester.”

  “Is that so?” Lady Atherly said. “I had no idea His Grace took such an interest in his youngest son’s wedding arrangements.”

  “But why shouldn’t the bishop officiate when my darling daughter, the granddaughter of a baron, marries the son of a duke?”

  “Why indeed?”

  As the two older women continued to discuss the merits for and against the bishop performing the Westwoode wedding, Lady Alice set aside the magazine she’d been reading and sorted through the stack on her lap. Titles like Life, the Ladies’ Home Journal, Cosmopolitan, Vogue, and Harper’s Bazaar flickered by. Miss Westwoode stared out the French windows. Stella followed the young woman’s gaze. From her vantage point, all Stella could see was the sky, peppered with darkening clouds. She shivered. Why hadn’t she brought a shawl?

  Hoping to commiserate with a fellow sufferer, Stella leaned over and whispered, “Are you fond of the outdoors, Miss Westwoode, or planning your escape?”

  Miss Westwoode gasped and glanced in her mother’s direction. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Kendrick?”

  Are you marrying for love, Miss Westwoode, or are you being forced to marry by your family, as I am?

  “For me, it’s a bit of both. I’ve always preferred the outdoors or the stable to drawing rooms,” Stella said. “Much to my father’s chagrin, I’m afraid, I like to ride,
cycle, swim, play tennis, what have you. I’m not good at sitting about discussing last month’s ball or who wore what to the World’s Fair.” Or a wedding that is never going to take place. Stella rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “Is it always this cold in here?”

  Miss Westwoode stared at the carpet again. Mrs. Westwoode stopped her conversation with Lady Atherly to stare at Stella. Lady Atherly sighed, as if her forbearance was near its end.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Stella asked.

  No one responded.

  “As I was saying, Mrs. Westwoode . . . ,” Lady Atherly continued.

  Stella looked to the other women for an explanation. Elizabeth Westwoode examined the vase on the octagonal table next to her, as if she’d never seen a bouquet of roses before. Aunt Rachel dozed in the overstuffed armchair by the unlit fireplace. Lady Alice had a smirk on her face while appearing buried in her magazines. Stella took their cue and sat wallowing in frustrated silence, digging her nails into her palms again, as the two matrons discussed wedding cakes. Then Lord Lyndhurst strode purposefully into the room. He was arrogance personified, and she despised him—he was complicit with her father in this wretched engagement, after all—but his presence brought much-welcomed energy to the room.

  “Mrs. Westwoode,” he said. “I trust you and Mr. Westwoode had a pleasant journey?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Lord Lyndhurst,” Mrs. Westwoode said. “We missed you at luncheon.”

  “My son considered it more important to go fishing than to entertain our guests,” Lady Atherly said.

  “But I came back in time to welcome the Kendricks, did I not?” Lady Atherly rolled her eyes as her son addressed another lady in the room. “Miss Westwoode, you look as lovely as ever.”

  Miss Westwoode batted her eyelids and smiled the way women seemed to do here, thinly and without showing their teeth. Could all English women have particularly poor teeth? Why else would they smile so?

  “Lord Hugh is a lucky man,” Lord Lyndhurst said.

  Miss Westwoode’s cheeks reddened, and her tight-lipped grin widened before she shyly lowered her gaze. Her mother beamed at him, nodding enthusiastically.

  “I see you have met Miss Kendrick,” Lyndy noted.

  “Yes. Charming, I’m sure,” Mrs. Westwoode said, her words belying her fading smile.

  Unlike Mrs. Westwoode, who had already focused her attention back on her daughter, Lord Lyndhurst’s focus remained on Stella. If he expected her to demurely look away, as Miss Westwoode had, he was surely disappointed. Stella held his gaze and continued to as he strode toward her and presumptuously took her hand. His dark brown eyes never left hers.

  “Yes, she is,” he whispered as he lifted her hand to his lips.

  Her relief in seeing him dissipated instantly. How did he know if she was charming? How did he know anything about her at all? She cringed in shame just thinking about the confrontation he’d witnessed between her and Daddy. He’d looked down upon her, kneeling in the dirt, with horse manure on her boots and skirt. She’d insulted him. How could he call her charming? He was mocking her, and she didn’t like it.

  “As if you would know,” Stella said.

  His eyebrows rose, and then he laughed. Stella yanked her hand away. Daddy expected her to spend the rest of her life with this man?

  “Well, that’s all settled,” Daddy announced as he followed Lord Atherly into the room. Daddy pinned Stella with his eyes and smiled like the cat that ate the canary. A sour taste filled Stella’s mouth.

  Daddy spied Mrs. Westwoode and her daughter and waddled over to them. “And who might these two such fine, beautiful ladies be?”

  Mrs. Westwoode, unmistakably alarmed by Daddy’s approach, leaned back in her chair, trying to create distance between them. He stared down at her, his hands on his hips, his belly protruding, waiting.

  Fulton, the butler, inadvertently coming to Mrs. Westwoode’s rescue, announced, “Tea is served, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Fulton,” Lady Atherly said as a footman arrived with a silver tray laden with tea sandwiches and scones. “As to your question, Mr. Kendrick, may I present Mrs. Westwoode and her daughter, Miss Westwoode? They are our guests for the wedding.”

  “Charming. Elijah Kendrick, the soon-to-be father-in-law to the viscount here, at your service, ma’am, miss.” Not having a hat, he pretended to tip his hat, nonetheless.

  “Yes, well,” Mrs. Westwoode said, trying to calculate the appropriate response. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kendrick. Does anyone know where my husband is?”

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him since luncheon,” Lord Atherly said.

  “And Lord Hugh?” Mrs. Westwoode said. “Where is my daughter’s fiancé?”

  Lady Atherly looked at her son, who shrugged.

  “Where is the vicar?” Daddy asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be here too? I want to see if the man’s up to the task.”

  “I can’t imagine what’s keeping him,” Lord Atherly said.

  “Reverend Bullmore does love his food.”

  “I am certain everyone shall join us soon,” Lady Atherly said, a forced smile on her face. “And I can assure you, Mr. Kendrick, that Reverend Bullmore is ‘up to the task.’”

  “Don’t be offended if I don’t take your word on that, Lady Atherly. I always need to meet eye to eye with every man I do business with.”

  “Pity. You must have to carry a step stool around with you, then.”

  Lady Atherly’s retort evoked snickers from several members of the group.

  As Mrs. Westwoode stifled a giggle with her hand, Daddy snapped, “Stella, you’re just sitting there. Why don’t you go find him?”

  Since the moment her father arrived, Stella had been staring at him, at the small bald circle on the back of his head, to be precise, as if challenging him to acknowledge her, apologize to her. He hadn’t. What a surprise. But now what? She’d love a chance to explore this fantastic house, if you could call such an enormous building a house, but her father had demanded she search for the vicar. Stella gently rubbed her sore hand. She was done doing his bidding.

  “Why don’t I give Miss Kendrick a bit of a tour of her new home?” Lord Lyndhurst offered unexpectedly. “Perhaps we’ll find the vicar while we’re at it.”

  “As long as you bring back the vicar,” Daddy said. “We have a lot to discuss, and time’s ticking.”

  “As long as you bring Miss Luckett with you,” Lady Atherly said.

  Aunt Rachel, having stirred at the pronouncement of tea, rose from her chair and grabbed her cane. “I’m game if you are, girlie,” she said.

  “Shall we?” Lord Lyndhurst said, leaning down and offering his arm to Stella.

  Stella studied him. Why had he interceded? Without a hint in his eyes, his countenance, or his manner, she was quick to disregard any thoughts of his sincerity. But she’d made her decision. Stella took the viscount’s arm and rose from the chair. He smiled, a thin smirk of a thing. Was he mocking her again? Had she made the wrong choice to go with him? No, for a moment the smile reached his eyes. Stella pushed down the fear, the bitterness, the self-pity, the anger, the doubt, and the determination and forced herself to smile back as Lord Lyndhurst led her and her hobbling chaperone in search of the wayward vicar.

  * * *

  “This is the music room, or what I like to call the Blue Room.”

  Stella could see why he called it that. Apart from the marble fireplace, the piano, and the crystal chandelier, everything in the room was a shade of blue. It reminded Stella of the ocean voyage she’d taken to get here. Yesterday she would’ve liked it.

  “I don’t have much occasion to spend time in here, though Mother insists I attend when she hosts a musical night or a ball. Hasn’t been one of those in quite some time.”

  “You don’t have to play tour guide for me, Lord Lyndhurst,” Stella said. “Our parents aren’t watching.” Neither was Aunt Rachel, who’d readily agreed to be left to rest in the conservatory, with a bit of sun
on her face.

  “Thank goodness for that.” He chuckled.

  “Why did you offer to come with me to find the vicar?”

  “We can’t have you getting lost, now can we?”

  “That’s not why. I’m guessing either you want to ingratiate yourself with my father by compelling me to do his bidding—”

  “Never.” The viscount’s vehemence surprised her.

  “Or you dislike drawing-room chitchat as much as I do.”

  He said nothing. Instead, he leafed through the sheet music on the Blüthner piano. It was Mozart’s “Dans un bois solitaire.” Since the viscount had admitted he wasn’t much of a musician, who played? Stella couldn’t play at all and certainly didn’t aspire to sing Mozart, but she enjoyed singing the likes of “Daisy Bell,” “After the Ball,” and “My Old Kentucky Home” for Daddy back home. Her singing performances were one of the rare times Daddy praised her.

  Lord Lyndhurst leaned over and began tapping on the keys with his index finger, one key at a time. It was a slow, choppy melody Stella didn’t recognize. The notes, filling the room, were discordant in her ears. She wanted him to stop.

  “When did you know?” she asked.

  “Know what?”

  “About this arrangement?”

  “Which arrangement? The Mozart piece?” he said, continuing to play.

  “This arrangement.” She wagged her finger back and forth between them.

  “That we tour the house or that we seek out our tardy vicar?”

  Stella, frustrated, reached over to block him from playing another note.

  Clang!

  She banged down on the piano keys. The viscount’s head snapped up in surprise. He stepped back from the piano.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Pity you won’t speak of it, then.”

  “I didn’t think I needed to.”

  “And here I thought Americans were forthright.”

  “And here I thought English sensibilities were too delicate to handle American frankness.”