Marblestone Mansion, Book 6

by Marti Talbott

  *

  Letters from Scotland took just as long as the journey, and Leesil was surprised to get a letter from Cathleen so soon after she arrived home. Shortly after Prescot brought it to her, she sat down in her favorite upstairs sitting room chair, and opened it.

  My dearest sister,

  However have we managed to live so far apart? How I miss being with you constantly, but I suppose it cannot be helped. A wife’s place is with her husband, but could our husbands not live on the same continent, at least?

  My new seamstress came from town to have tea with me yesterday, and brought the most divine drawings of baby clothes. I am deliriously happy with her plans and gave her the funds in advance for purchasing the material.

  You shall never guess what I found after you left – three orphaned puppies. I know you shan’t believe me, but that mysterious black horse showed me where they were. I have not seen the horse since, though I look for him daily. Cameron knows not what breed the puppies are, and none of us care. They are adorable and all the servants have fallen in love with them. They shall be good companions for Blair, now that they can grow up together. Naming them has become a great topic of conversation and Cameron thinks to have a contest of sorts.

  I must admit I am far happier now that certain servants are no longer with us

  Oh, I nearly forgot. Egan and Malveen were married just a week after your departure, and her minster father both gave her away and officiated. Everyone was there, and no two happier people are there in the world but Egan and Malveen, I am convinced. I shall miss them both while they are attending Malveen’s concerts, but they promise to return as often as they can.

  All our love, Cathleen, Cameron, and Blair

  Post Script: We have decided to return Blair to her original name, convinced the duchess shall not look for her now that she told Lord Okerman Blair is dead. What a relief for us all.

  As was her habit, Leesil folded the letter and went downstairs to place it on her husband’s desk. Then she went back upstairs to write her reply.

  *

  Hannish was home after his first day back to work and had just finished reading Cathleen’s letter, when Prescot lightly knocked on the study door and then opened it. “Mr. Nelson is on the telephone for you.”

  “Thank you, Prescot.” Hannish waited until Prescot was gone before he took the earpiece out of its holder. “Mr. Nelson, I believe you called sometime back asking about your missing wife? Have you found her?”

  “I have not,” the California shipping magnet replied.

  “Might I ask you a few questions?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Is your wife very beautiful with dark hair and most becomin’ blue eyes.”

  “She is, what…”

  “And does she have a mark on her arm, perhaps a burn mark?”

  “She does, how did you know?”

  “Mr. Nelson, she was in Scotland the last I saw of her.”

  “Scotland, what is she doing there?”

  “‘Tis a long story, but I shall shorten it. She was with a previous husband.”

  “What?” the man on the other end of the telephone nearly shouted. “She said he died.”

  “The truth be told, she has several previous husbands. She has a habit of marryin’ and runnin’ off. I believe you are her sixth or perhaps her seventh husband.” He paused to let the news sink in for a moment, and could hear heavy exasperated breathing on the other end. When there was only silence, he asked, “Mr. Nelson, are you still there?”

  At length Mr. Nelson said, “Are you certain it is the same woman?”

  “Your name was mentioned.” Of course, Hannish was the one to mention it, but Mr. Nelson didn’t need to know the details.

  “I see. What should I do, Mr. MacGreagor?”

  “I strongly suggest you divorce her on the grounds of desertion and be done with it. Otherwise, she might…she has a habit of…she makes an appearance when you least expect it.”

  “You mean if something were to happen to me, she would inherit?”

  “I mean you must take all precaution of protectin’ your wealth. She is very resourceful when she wants to be.” Hannish waited, but the silence on the other end seemed to drag on and on.

  “Thank you, Mr. MacGreagor,” Nelson said at last.

  “Good day to you, then.” Relieved to have it over with, Hannish hung up. He should have taken the time to divorce her himself, for until just now, it had not occurred to him the duchess could lay claim to his estate after he passed.

  His brother, Cameron, had burned the wedding certificate, but there were other things to consider. Hannish thought about bribing someone to wipe any hint of his marriage off the records in Scotland, but that wouldn’t do – there were too many witnesses at the wedding, not to mention pictures in the newspapers. It was a good thing they had a judge in the family, he decided. McKenna’s husband would never let something like that happen.

  At length, he shrugged and picked up Cathleen’s letter a second time. Her first paragraph seemed to confirm what he was beginning to suspect – the sisters longed to live closer to one another and possibly, quite possibly, they might one day think their husbands were too selfish to allow it. Hannish folded the letter, set it aside, pushed the thought out of his mind for now, and went back to reading the newest Sir Arthur Conan Doyle book.

  CHAPTER 6

  Buggies were parked on both sides of the dirt road when it came time to lay Patella Green to rest. In the Green’s modest parlor, there was no fancy chandelier, no expensive chairs and no piano. Only one picture hung on the wall, and that was the country scene Patella painted the year before. Her body lay in a Victorian style coffin with brass handles on top of a table near the wall.

  With scant room in the parlor for anyone other than the minster and the family, the mourners first to arrive were gathered on the front porch, and those who came later stood in the yard. Fellow farmers had come from all over the county to pay their respects, as did many of the townspeople – some to mourn the loss of someone they knew, and some so they could see the body of the woman who was the object of the latest scandal. Unfortunately for them, the coffin had already been sealed, due to the extreme heat of the preceding days.

  The women wore black taffeta that rustled when they walked, and the men wore their best black suits with tall black hats, which they removed for the quiet and somber occasion.

  Through an open window, the minister inside spoke as loudly as he could but his voice did not carry well, and some could not hear him at all. It was not until a man inside the house began to sing In the Sweet By-and-By, that the women outside began to weep.

  With all the words said that could be said for his daughter, and with his hand shaking, Mr. Green filled out the death register. He entered his daughter’s name, the date, the place of death, and her age. He made no mention of the baby and left the manner of death blank.

  Six able-bodied men, including Mr. Green’s neighbor, Mr. Crestwood, carried the coffin to the two horse hearse waiting just beyond the gate. Everyone watched through the glass windows as it was carefully put inside. The curtains were slowly drawn, so those they encountered on the way to the cemetery would know to stop what they were doing, bow their heads and pay their respects.

  As she and Hannish waited for everyone to board their carriages and begin the funeral procession, Leesil had time to look around. Including Pearl who was yet unmarried, all the members of the sewing circle and their husbands were there – all save Douglas and Loretta Swinton.

  The services at the gravesite were brief and as Tom drove the couple home, Leesil leaned against her husband and finally managed to dry her tears.

  “Are you goin’ to survive?” Hannish asked.

  “Quite possibly.”

  “I am happy to hear that.”

  “‘Tis only my second funeral. The first was when Donnel died, and we were not here when Blanka passed. Both of them were elders and I understand how the aged die, but Miss G
reen was so very young and I am heartbroken for her family.”

  “So am I, love.”

  “I cannae help thinkin’ how awful it would be if somethin’ were to happen to Cameron, Cathleen, or Blair. We are so very far away.”

  “I know, but we best not dwell on it. We MacGreagors do not die easily.”

  “Flora did.”

  He had not forgotten his first sister-in-law and felt bad for making it sound as though he had. If he were not aware of his wife’s longing for her sister before, he was now. “Sweetheart, do not trouble yourself so. Our circumstances are such that there is little we can do about it.”

  “I know. We must wait until they come to us next year, if they are well and if the ocean does not swallow them up.”

  He smiled and kissed the top of her head. “Or if the train stops runnin’ or if the forest begins to burn somewhere between here and there.”

  Leesil finally giggled. “If it does, we shall simply ask Abigail to blow it out. She becomes a bit of a windbag lately.”

  “Has she not always been?”

  “Aye…she has always been, just more so lately.”

  *

  In London, the day of the King’s coronation had finally arrived. It was an event that normally came about only once in a lifetime, and the duchess was not about to miss it. On this day, she was happy to be disguised in widow’s weeds lest someone might recognize her. She did resent, however, having to stand among the hordes of peasants that were positioned several deep, on a mound across the street from Westminster Abby. The most she could hope for was a mere glimpse of King Edward VII coronation procession, but at least she could claim she was there.

  She endured it as best she could, when she saw those in the upper rung of society being escorted inside the Abby. She should have been, in fact deserved to be, among those invited to witness The Archbishop of Canterbury as he performed the sacred ceremony. Alas, she might have been, if the King had not fallen victim to appendicitis just two days before he was scheduled to be crowned in June. In June, she had the best possible escort to a London ball, where she would surely have been added to the guest list. Unfortunately, she was kidnapped that very night and didn’t make it to the ball.

  How desperately she wanted to be counted among the King’s personal friends. She wanted to see his efforts to refurbish his palaces first hand, and to say a word or two in favor of his having such great admiration for the arts. Not that she cared about the arts, a picture was a picture and a statue was just a statue after all, but such a compliment would surely have endeared her to the King.

  Just now, as she watched people she knew walk up the steps to the Abby, her resentment steadily increased – until it became such that she almost wished she had been saved her humiliation by the man who tried to assassinate King Edward the year before.

  Of course, to be completely assured of an invitation to this and all other major London events, she would need to be a duchess, and still married to the Duke of Glenartair. That she was not – was all Hannish MacGreagor’s fault.

  It was his fault she was forced to stand on the embankment and simply wait until the cannon was fired in Hyde Park, and then merely watch as the procession began to pass. She recognized the Prince of Wales, all the members of the royal household, and some of the King’s personal staff. She cared nothing for the priests or the emissaries from other countries, even though three were princes and looked quite dapper in their colorful costumes.

  Finally, she caught a glimpse of the Royal horse guards and the Watermen escorting the King’s carriage. The carriage was indeed gold, just as the papers claimed, was pulled by four pairs of cream colored horses, and through the crystal panel windows, she caught just a glimpse of the king. Unfortunately, he was looking in the opposite direction as he passed her particular location, and for that, she would never forgive him. The crowd furiously cheered, but the duchess didn’t bother to add her voice or her applause to theirs. It was far too humiliating.

  After the trumpets sounded, the Abby bells rang, and the magnificently dressed King Edward VII, with his back to her, walked into the building, the duchess lost all interest. She threaded her way through the crowd, walked back to the Husher mansion and took to her bed. Lord and Lady Husher were among the invited, and she was sure to hear all about the actual coronation later…whether she wanted to or not.

  Not once did she suspect someone was following her.

  *

  George Graham was in fact her first and only true husband. He had been looking for his wife for months, and if he knew anything at all – he knew that by hook or by crook, the duchess would somehow manage to attend the King’s coronation. A stonemason by trade, his mustache and beard were neatly trimmed, and matched the color of his mousy brown hair and dull brown eyes.

  He was certain that if pressed, the duchess would say he threatened to turn her in to the authorities, after she left him and married another without benefit of a proper divorce. On the contrary, extortion was her idea – and what glorious extortion it was, especially after she married Lord Bayington and then the duke. The benefits of riding her wave of excitement were endless and he relished every moment of it. He had to admit her aspirations had carried her far, but it was all as pretentious as a beggar claiming to be king.

  Unfortunately, his free ride abruptly came to an end.

  To his way of thinking, she was the perfect wife. When they were together, she was willing to be in his bed and she paid for everything, including the voyage to America. That little American caper didn’t turn out as well as George hoped, and it was there he lost track of his wife. He expected to find her at the MacGreagor castle in Scotland, but she never returned. Yet, he was certain life could still be sweet – if he ever managed to find her again.

  Until recently, he supposed she could be anywhere in the world, but a little newspaper article in the society section displayed her wedding picture to the duke, and claimed the duchess was suspiciously missing.

  “Missing, my backside,” George muttered as he closed the newspaper, and laid it on the table beside his bed. At last, he knew which continent she was on and just how to find her.

  For hours, beginning very early in the morning, George attentively watched the guests arrive at the Abby. She was not among them. He then turned his attention to the commoners who had gathered along both sides of the street. He examined face after face, ignoring the men, the short, the round, and the women who were shabbily dressed. He guessed she would want to be as close to the Abby as possible, but he simply could not spot her – that is, until he noticed a woman wearing all black with widow’s netting to hide her face.

  He had her now, and when she turned to go, he followed her back to what he was certain would be a house filled with the wealth of her newest victim.

  He was wrong.

  He was not wrong about the duchess living in wealth, but as far as he knew, Lord and Lady Husher were still quite married with no sons for the duchess to seduce. Something else was going on, and he fully intended to find out what it was.

  *

  “I hear Mr. MacGreagor hired away two of Mr. Swinton’s best carpenters,” said Madeline.

  This time, when Tom came to see her, afternoon was turning to evening and she was just getting off work, so he offered to see her home safely. He would have asked her to take a longer walk with him, but she had already been on her feet all day.

  On either side of a road that had only two street lanterns, sat houses with brick chimneys and white picket fences. They were inhabited by the owner of the carriage house, the couple who ran the telephone company, a doctor that daily commuted to Denver, and a widow rumored to be related to Napoleon. The tiny jail, the train station, the hotel, and the postmaster’s office lay one street over, as did the train tracks and the large tower that supplied the trains with water. The Swinton home lay straight ahead with its draperies pulled shut.

  Tom chuckled as they leisurely strolled down the street. “Where could you have possib
ly heard that?”

  “It was second, third, or perhaps fourth hand, naturally. I shall give you three guesses as to who began it, but I doubt you need more than one.”

  “Mrs. Whitfield.”

  “None other.”

  “Did Mrs. Swinton come to tea this afternoon?”

  “Tom, I am worried about her. She is losing weight, she has dark circles under her eyes, and she constantly looks to be on the verge of tears. She pays no attention to anyone and…”

  “And what?”

  “And I am not certain how much longer I can bear to watch her. I want so desperately to help her.”

  “Have you offered?”

  “I told her if she wanted to talk, I would listen.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you suspect her husband has threatened her?”

  “I can think of no other reason. She used to be such a friendly sort.”

  “Miss Leesil says she still refuses to talk to any of her friends. I suppose she does not want to hear all the gossip. Has Mr. Swinton hurt her, do you suppose?”

  “I have seen no bruises. Perhaps she simply loves him enough not to take the chance.”

  “The chance?”

  “The chance of saying something that might incriminate him.”

  “Perhaps you are right. Love can make people do what they would not do ordinarily.”

  “Such as?”

  Tom didn’t intend to broach that subject and tried to think of an answer that would not spawn more in-depth questions. “There was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.”

  Madeline giggled. “She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”

  “Ah, you’ve heard that one too.”

  “I have, but I do not recall the rest of it.”

  “Nor do I. The question is; why did she live in a shoe?”

  “I give up, why?”

  “Because that was the home her husband provided for her, and she loved him enough to live there with him.”

  “Who says she had a husband?”