by Dana Cameron
A blaze going, my candle close at hand to keep the shadows at bay, I settled in to find my book.
It was not tucked down next to the cushion where I’d hidden it.
My heart stopped: I had been very careful to hide it—had I succeeded in hiding it from myself? Or had I grown too careless lately, and left it somewhere else? What if someone had discovered it?
I cast about, desperately, and finally found it on the other side of the walnut wing chair, stuck between the cushion and arm. Sighing deeply, I turned to sit, clutching the book to my bosom, only to look up and see Mr. Chandler watching me, a candle in his hand, casting grotesque shadows on the wall.
“Ah. Did I replace it incorrectly?’” he asked. “My apologies. I had thought to return it to the library, when I found it there earlier, but then I realized that whoever had put it there would come back for it, eventually. Inevitably, I should say, because it is altogether impossible to leave Mr. Swift’s provoking arguments alone until they are concluded, I find.”
“I—I… the book… is not mine,” I stammered. I could feel myself redden to the brow; it was not entirely a falsehood. I had taken it from my father’s library.
Mr. Chandler bowed. “Miss Chase. Good night.”
I sat for a few minutes, clutching the ridiculous book for a moment more, feeling my heart pound as if it would break through my stays. At least the man was wearing a coat now, and I was no longer clad in my nightclothes. There had been nothing improper about our last encounter, but it had left me unnerved.
Unfortunately, there was nothing about being fully dressed that made me feel less vulnerable now.
I began to tremble: Surely Mr. Chandler knew it was none of his business to mention my reading habits to my family? What if he should—?
A blast like the roar of a cannon came from the other end of the house. I secured the book in my pocket, safely under my gown, and hurried to see what had transpired.
A few servants were emerging from their rooms into the kitchen just as I arrived. I hiked up my skirts and ascended to Sally’s room, as quickly as I could, stumbling only a little on the well-worn stairs.
What I saw at the top made my blood run cold: Mr. Chandler was at the doorway, a grim look on his face and a pistol in his hand. The acrid smell of burnt powder still hung in the air.
A few steps more and I could see what I feared most: Tommy was clutching his arm, his white linen sleeve blossoming red, roses on snow.
He was dressed in the maid’s night garments, complete with mobcap.
The cloak that had served as a coverlet was pulled off the bed, now on the floor, and a small fortune in garnets, pearls, and gold spilled out of the hood, glinting in the candlelight.
I looked up at Mr. Chandler, horrified. He kept his pistol steady on its intended target, Mr. Lamb, who was cowering in the opposite corner. A spent pistol was lying on the floor before him, and Mr. Lamb clutched his jaw, as if hurt. A graze reddened the knuckles on Mr. Chandler’s left hand.
Scarcely knowing what to do first, I heard Tommy moan. “Get Mother, Mags. I’m dying!”
“You’re hardly dying,” I said out of habit, for I have remarked that a positive outlook is as good as a tonic, and men are too prone to overexaggerate their hurts. I climbed onto the bed. “I’m sure it’s no more than a scratch.” I seized the fabric of the sleeve and tore it, so I could ascertain the nature of the wound.
As I worked, using the hem of his nightshirt, I recalled the time one of Father’s friends had shot himself in the foot at one of our hunts. The blood had been so copious then that even Mother had been forced to concede the need for a physician. But, to my great relief, this was nothing of that sort.
“No, Tommy, no need for Mother,” I said with satisfaction. “I’ll bind it up, now, and then make a poultice when the dust has settled, to draw the poisons out. You won’t even miss church tomorrow.”
“I might,” Tommy said, seeing an opportunity to avoid Reverend Grantley’s special two-hour Christmas sermon, a tradition he’d inflicted on us for each of the past twenty-some years.
“Caroline Denbigh will be there,” I said, knotting the cloth. “Imagine what a story you’ll have to tell her.”
Tommy went silent, deep in thought.
I got off the bed, strode up to Mr. Lamb, and slapped him in the face. “That’s for Simon,” I said. “And that”—I slapped him twice more—”is for scaring poor Sally, and that for shooting my brother!”
“Nice to know that I hover within the bare periphery of your good wishes,” Tommy muttered from the corner of the bed.
I raised my hand again, but Mr. Chandler coughed. “Perhaps, Miss Chase, as just as your punishment is, it would be more effective—for the moment—if you stayed out of my line of fire.”
Mother arrived then, emitting a little shriek. Her dressing gown was belted tightly around her, and her hair in rags under her cap. Her personal maid followed behind, rubbing her eyes.
“Thomas! What monstrosity is this? You in the maid’s bed—in the maid’s garments! What have you done? Where is the maid?”
Then she saw Mr. Chandler with his pistol aimed at Mr. Lamb. “I take it, sir. there is some good reason for this unseasonable breach of courtesy?”
Before he could answer, Mother saw the jewels on the floor.
She scooped them up, instantly, and was temporarily silenced, her mouth forming a small o.
“I believe I owe Mr. Chase an apology,” she murmured. Mother shook the gems to watch them sparkle in her hand under the candlelight, then she rummaged in the hood to ascertain she had them all, and stowed them in the bosom of her dressing gown. Then she turned to Tommy.
“I am sure that I raised you better than this! Please tell me that you have not sunk so low as to… tamper with the maids! And then to be making such a mess! And wearing a maid’s clothing! What a disgrace you are, Thomas. Take that cap off! I’ll have no riotous mummery here!”
To her credit, however, even as Mother castigated Tommy for his sins, real and imagined, she examined the bandaged wound. “This will need a poultice, and quick, but there’s no pus, and nothing left in the wound to fester.” She nodded to me, approving my handiwork.
“If you would permit me, Madam,” Mr. Chandler said. “I believe I can explain everything.”
“I think I would like your explaining better if we had one of our London magistrates to hear it, too!” Mother replied. “I like not this crush of people in the servants’ quarters, nor this display of weaponry in the city, in a quiet, civil, and respectable house. And on Christmas morn, too! And you, Mr. Lamb, have you nothing to say for yourself?”
“I am sure this is all some mistake,” Lamb began, his jaw braised.
Mr. Chandler, who had so far managed to suppress any inappropriate emotion he might have felt at my mother’s outraged sense of propriety and list of grievances, frowned and raised his pistol again. That effectively stopped Mr. Lamb’s words as effectively as my bandage had stanched Tommy’s wound.
“I believe that your wish is about to be granted,” Mr. Chandler said. “If that noise below marks the arrival of my good friend from Lincoln’s Inn. I sent my man with Sally to fetch him, telling him to keep her safe there tonight, while Thomas took her place. I hope this will satisfy you, Madam, as he is as forthright a magistrate as any alive, and will take all the evidence as quick as you like.”
“Well, that is very satisfactory,” my mother conceded, “but why should you be receiving callers here, and at this time of night—or morning, should I say?”
“Mother, you know that Mr. Matthew Chandler is my very good friend,” Tommy said, “and before all else, he is a gentleman, through and through. Besides that, he is a magistrate himself, lately come from his home near Oxford.”
“If it had not been for the excitement of Mr. Chase’s announcement, and sudden discovery of the theft, I would have revealed my occupation to you,” Mr. Chandler said. “My profound apologies: I did not want to conceal anythi
ng from you. Rather, at the discovery of the loss of the jewels, I kept my identity secret—with Tommy’s help—so that I might better help recover the treasure. And, as it happens, Simon’s murderer, I’m sorry to say.” Here he gestured at Mr. Lamb, who made no reply.
“Murder!” Mother gasped. She turned to Mr. Lamb. “You brute! Poor Simon! And I am already so shorthanded.”
Mr. Chandler continued. “However, it was your daughter, Miss Chase, and her keen observations that were chiefly responsible for revealing the truth tonight. The vindication of an innocent maid, vengeance for an honest man, and the apprehension of a dangerous villain.”
With that he inclined his head to me, and I curtsied in return. I did not, however, lower my eyes. I was so caught up in his gaze, I could not bear to do it.
“Well,” Mother said finally, “my Margaret’s not without her faults, but she’s a good girl. And if she did have a hand in resolving these dealings tonight, I’m sure no harm was meant by it.” She heard the arrival of the magistrate below. “And now, we have guests to welcome, servants to calm, and Tommy to bind up. It seems Christmas morning has come beforetime, but I will not be caught unprepared. Mrs. Baker! Mrs. Billings!”
———
Most of the carriage ride back from church the next morning—or later that morning, I should say—was quiet. Father never roused the whole night, not even waking early in the morning, when as a family we exchanged small gifts. He was in a sad state, his aching head made no easier by hearing that one of his guests was a thief and murderer.
Finally, Father erupted. “Damn me—your pardon, Mrs. Chase—”
“Not at all, Mr. Chase.” My mother was so enthralled with her birthday present—and the opportunity to show off her pearls and garnets at church—that she would have forgiven my father a good deal more.
“—but the man was buying fancy buckles at the same time I was. We had no idea of his recent financial troubles, and certainly, he was dressed well enough and made no complaint of being ruined.”
“No, Father,” I said, “he was buying on credit. And he used his case—emptied of his buckles and filled with pebbles—in order to swap it with your own. I’m sure he planned it on the way home—you did wander a bit, you know—and seized on the confusion of your arrival with your guests—and with Tommy and Mr. Chandler—to hide the gems in Sally’s hood. Such a small weight would hardly be noticed under the heaviness of her own cloak, indeed, or under the burden of garments she bore into the house. His plan was to slip into her room and retrieve the jewels later.”
“But that seems such an awful risk, Mags,” Tommy said. He’d woken out of his daydreams, wherein I’m sure he was revisiting Caroline Denbigh’s squeals of affected and ladylike horror when he offered to tell her how he had been hurt. He would cherish it as a token to his heart for weeks to come, or until the next false hope presented itself. “What if Sally found it? What if she’d kept it for herself, or told us of her discovery?”
“If she found it and kept it, he’d only have to blackmail her into returning it to him,” Mr. Matthew Chandler said. “If she’d found them and returned them to you, why, the puzzle would remain but no harm would be done. It was a risk worth taking. With that stake, Lamb might parlay it into a bigger fortune, either at the gaming tables or on the seas.”
Mr. Chandler sat comfortably in the rear-facing seat of the coach. “A gentleman with good credit and reputation can live on those for a long time. Lamb didn’t want to wait to see whether he could change his fortunes. Now, I daresay, he’ll be living the rest of his life in the colonies, transported for murder, instead.”
Mr. Chandler turned to my mother, smiling so that she couldn’t resist responding in kind. “Perhaps, Mrs. Chase, you wouldn’t mind stopping the carriage. It is a fine clear day, and a walk after church is beneficial to reflection.”
“But you don’t know the way to the house,” Tommy said. He signaled the driver, and the carriage pulled to one side. Mr. Chandler leapt out, and Tommy made as if to scramble out to follow him. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, Thomas, your wound still troubles you, no doubt,” Mr. Chandler said. “But perhaps Miss Chase would be kind enough—”
“Of course she would!” My mother all but hauled me from my seat, all but shoved me out the door. I did not have time to protest—nor did I want to. “I’m sure she would love to discuss Reverend Grantley’s sermon, a perennial favorite, with you. Go, Margaret, none of your puling! ‘Tis but a short walk, and the cold air will whet your appetite.”
I’m sure Mother, heartened by my lack of protest, wanted to give Mr. Chandler every opportunity to discover how sweet-spoken, demur, and well-bred I was.
As I exited the carriage, I thought I noticed a trace of sadness in Mr. Fairchild’s eyes. I know that he had hoped I might consider him, when my “present melancholy” as my mother called it, had left me. I would have considered him, too, for he was a good friend and a true gentleman. If it had not been for Mr. Lamb’s greed…
Mr. Chandler handed me out. As the door shut, Father leaned out, his eyes were bloodshot, red as holly berries.
“Chandler!”
“Mr. Chase?”
“I know exactly how long it takes to walk from here to the house,” he said gruffly.
The carriage pulled away.
“Did you enjoy Christmas service, Mr. Chandler?” I took the arm he offered and we began to stroll.
“Luke is a pleasant and happy book to contemplate, but I find I am more interested in Swift.”
My heart dropped. Was this some sort of blackmail? Perhaps he sought a kiss for a kept secret? Or was it worse than that, would he upbraid me for reading? Because, as everyone knows—or yet believes—a woman’s wit is like a sharpened sword: Best hid away in the scabbard lest it do hurt to she who wields it and those around her.
“Mr. Chandler?” My voice was nearly steady, but I could only keep my eyes on the cobblestones on the ground ahead of me.
“Miss Chase, forgive my bluntness. I have been too long out of the company of society, and most times I find it a tedious necessity. If you have any thoughts on Jonathan Swift, I would be delighted to hear them. I would prefer that to a discussion of the holiday sermon, the weather, or any other nicety that I’m sure your mother has worked hard to instill in you.”
We walked a few more paces, though I admit, my mind raced as my feet slowed.
“Miss Chase, I would delight to hear your thoughts. If not essays, then perhaps poetry? Are you familiar with Alexander Pope?”
Still, I could not speak. How could I, when I had been so long used to hiding my thoughts, stifling my tongue, curbing my mind in company? And yet, if ever I would speak my mind to him… I must do it soon, or lose the chance.
“If it helps… I know something of your history,” he said, “and I have guessed at more. Forgive my impudence and familiarity, but… if I am correct—and I hope I am—I would… that is to say… I mean…”
“Presumably Tommy told you that I’ve recently come out of mourning for my fiancé,” I blurted.
Mr. Chandler nodded, and I could not decide whether to kiss Tommy or strangle him.
“I was ill, a while back, and he was my constant visitor,” Mr. Chandler said. “To divert me, he told me of your family.”
“When he should have been at studies, I’m sure,” I said. My life, a diversion! The hangman’s scaffold for all men, Tommy and Chandler first in line at Tyburn!
“You misunderstand me. I wanted to hear about your family; Tommy’s been a good friend to me.” Mr. Chandler paused. “He mentioned your decline after your fiancé’s death. And that your fiancé had died… badly.”
Very badly, I thought. Richard had compounded the intemperance of two bottles of claret over cards with the foolishness of riding home late at night. His horse had been found riderless, grazing by a bridge the next day. Richard, his neck broken, was found in the stream below.
“Tommy also described your distress in dis
covering, after the fact, that your fiancé had done… things no gentleman would dream of.”
It was true; after I’d learned what a polite monster I very nearly was wife to—a man who treated his parents’ unwilling maidservants as his personal harem—I nearly despaired of a better fate. My discovery made me blush still: Not only had I perceived none of Richard’s true character, but outside my family, it seemed the rest of the world knew, winked at his base behavior as a man’s prerogative, and still thought him a fine match for me.
But being every bit as stubborn as my mother claims, I also determined never to be fooled again by pretty manners and a base heart. I sought to educate myself in the ways of the world beyond my safe home, listening as my brothers’ tutors taught them, while I pretended to be wrapped up in some fancy needlework. I snuck books from the library. Tommy caught me reading once, but my admission and reasons baffled him, and what confuses Tommy is dismissed from his mind, often enough.
Or was it? I began to wonder.
“In my profession of the law, I am confronted by every degree of human failure and virtue,” Mr. Chandler said, quickening his pace and glancing at me. “But I have rarely observed anything so admirable and courageous as your attempt to educate yourself, and by doing so, address the unfair and damaging constraints of polite society upon an individual.”
“My brother is indiscreet,” I said. Was it possible that Mr. Chandler understood?
He shook his head fervently. “Tommy never said, ‘my sister, most unladylike and unnatural, reads that which should spoil a woman.’ He merely noticed a volume on my shelf, and said ‘ah, Mags would like that,’ no more. He looked guilty, as if he’d betrayed a secret, and I pretended not to notice. But ever since then…”
Miracle of miracles, Mr. Chandler, so far from being appalled by my secret, had sought me out.
I decided then.
“I found Swift difficult, at first, and somewhat shocking,” I began, cautiously, hesitantly. But surely, in the bustle of the street, people caroling, carriages rolling by, the sounds of happy Christmas greetings coming from every doorway, no one could hear me. No one but Mr. Matthew Chandler.
