A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  “Because you are not prepared to be forthcoming about your reasons for being here. I will not help someone who will not be honest with me.”

  Rosalind felt her cheeks begin to burn. “I beg your pardon. It was not my intent to deceive.”

  “Of course not. But I recognize drawing room diplomacy when I hear it.” Miss Onslow leaned forward, and Rosalind smelled dust and jasmine. “Such temporizing can hide so very much, Miss Thorne. For all I know, you intend to cause harm to some petty rival.”

  For a moment, Rosalind did not know whether to be delighted or offended. As neither reaction would serve very well, she settled for direct. “Very well, Miss Onslow. I make my living by assisting women with problems of various kinds and degrees. I was recently engaged to prove a gentlewoman’s innocence against a charge of adultery. Shortly thereafter, her supposed lover was murdered and her husband is to be tried for the crime. I believe him to be innocent. I also believe that proving the identity of the person who wrote the letter I have may shed light on the reasons behind the false charge, and show me how to flush out the murderer.”

  Miss Onslow’s bright eyes glittered with something very close to greed.

  “Ah! Now, that is a story with heart and life’s blood, not to mention the ring of truth. I will be very glad to help you. If, that is, I have not now offended you by my behavior.”

  “I confess, Miss Onslow, I do not know quite what to make of you,” Rosalind told her. “But I will gladly accept any help you are willing to give. I do not have much time left to me.”

  Rosalind retrieved her basket and lifted the cloth that covered it. “Here is the letter, and here are two written by my leading candidates I have for its authorship.” She laid down the blackmail letter, followed by the letter from Sir Bertram that Mrs. Nott had given her, and (with a slight hesitation) the one she had received from Mrs. Seymore with the fee for her assistance.

  There was still another in the bottom of her basket, but she would wait to bring that out.

  Miss Onslow unfolded all three documents and smoothed them out side by side on her desk. “If you could move the lamp a little closer, Miss Thorne. Thank you.” She picked up a large brass-rimmed magnifying glass and peered at each letter in turn. She took her time, looking from one to the other, touching a word here, and another there, her mouth moving soundlessly the entire time.

  Rosalind had seldom found it so difficult to compose herself to patience. The fire crackled in its hearth. The dog settled at its mistress’s feet, resting its shaggy head on its paws. Rebecca came in with a tray bearing cold pigeon pie, rock cakes, and a bottle of what proved to be dandelion cordial.

  At long last, Miss Onslow straightened her shoulders and laid the glass down. “I am sorry, Miss Thorne. I must disappoint. None of these letters were written by the same person.”

  Rosalind’s spirits plummeted. “You are certain?”

  “I am. If you’ll look here.” Miss Onslow took up the glass again. “Both are well tutored, possibly even by the same tutor. But the shape of the A here, and here, it is almost indistinguishable from the E, here. You see? Whereas in this, the letter A is quite distinct from E. Also, the way in which the T is crossed, is different in each. I expect this person”—she lifted Mrs. Seymore’s letter—“might have a dominant left hand, but has been taught, as so many are, to write with the right.” She looked again at Rosalind. “I’m afraid this is not what you wanted to hear.”

  “It . . . complicates matters,” replied Rosalind. “But that is hardly your fault.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me of your problem,” suggested Miss Onslow as she poured out two glasses of cordial. “Whatever it might be. I spent my time in the grand salons of the previous generation before I retired from the world. Now, I spend it surrounded with the blood and gore and scandal of history. You will find I am not easily shocked.”

  The salons of the previous generation . . . Rosalind paused with her glass of cordial halfway to her mouth. “I . . . Is it possible, Miss Onslow, during that time, you might have been acquainted with the Marchioness of Weyland?”

  “Weyland?” Miss Onslow knit her thin, pale brows. “You don’t mean old Lord Weyland’s child bride by any chance? Little Agnes Donville?”

  “Yes,” said Rosalind, her heart turning over in a kind of uneasy hope. “That is who I mean.”

  “Is that what business brings you here? Goodness. I should have realized.”

  “I have been attempting to find out more about her,” said Rosalind. “I’ve tried all my acquaintances, but no one knows anything.” She’d been through letter after letter, reaching out through every connection she could think to use. But while everyone spoke of Lord Adolphus and his charity and his competence and his devotion to his ailing brother, not one would admit to knowing the dowager marchioness.

  “She told me she once entertained quite a bit,” Rosalind said to Miss Onslow. “And confesses to an adventurous girlhood . . .”

  “Ha!” laughed Miss Onslow sharply. “‘Adventurous’ is one word for it. Oh, Miss Thorne, that girl was a scandal.” She grinned. “Have some pie, Miss Thorne. This may take a bit.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Pleasing Reminiscences

  But alas! The friendship was fleeting and delusive.

  —The Trial of William Henry Hall vs. Major George Barrow

  for Criminal Conversation

  Rosalind restrained her impatience and let her hostess help her to some pie and cakes and more cordial. A plate was arranged for the grateful hound and Rosalind felt close to screaming, until she saw the gleam in Miss Onslow’s eye, and realized she was being teased, and quite possibly tested.

  “Well, Miss Thorne,” said Miss Onslow as she pushed her chair back from her desk and picked up her own plate. “Hear you now the tale of Agnes Donville. The youngest hanger-on of what was, back in the nineties, a most notorious clique.”

  “What made them notorious?”

  “Their salons, chiefly,” said Miss Onslow. “Gatherings of the great, the near great, and the would-be great.”

  “Were they political?”

  “Oh, no, good heavens. They were gamblers.”

  Rosalind’s throat closed.

  “I know,” said Miss Onslow over the rim of her cordial glass. “It was scandalous even then, before we all became so prim and proper. What would happen is that one of these ladies would send out invitations to a private party at one or another of their grand houses—and they were universally grand. The guests who accepted would find every game they could ask for—cards of all descriptions, a faro bank, hazard, all of it. There would even be a cashier on hand to change notes, and always a man of business who could be counted on for a loan, if one was in need.”

  Rosalind’s thoughts darted instantly to Mr. Fullerton and his drawer of jewelry and letters.

  “Of course the lady hostess took her share of the winnings,” said Miss Onslow. “And by this means did these fine ladies greatly increase their individual incomes.”

  “Is this how the dowager made her fortune?” Rosalind remembered the icy calculation tightening Lady Weyland’s doll-like face, and found she could believe it very easily.

  “I expect it became impolite to remember, let alone talk about it,” said Miss Onslow. “Especially once Agnes married a marquis. There was at the time, however, a great deal of speculation about her relationship with old Lord Weyland, especially since she allowed him to fleece her guests, as long as he handed over her share of the extra.”

  Rosalind opened her mouth, remembered her manners, and closed it again. Miss Onslow smiled.

  “Ask your question, Miss Thorne. I do not mind.”

  “Were you one of these notorious ladies?”

  “I flitted about the edges for a time.” For a moment, sorrow clouded her bright eyes. “You know how it is, Miss Thorne. We gentlewomen are frequently forced i
nto shapes that are not natural to us, and it can take a great deal of hard experience to break us free.” Miss Onslow set her glass down. “Is any of this of use to you?”

  “It is,” said Rosalind. “It changes a number of my assumptions, and I think for the better.” Rosalind finished her own draft of the bitter cordial. “There is one other question—well, perhaps two.”

  “I am entirely at your disposal.” Miss Onslow inclined her head graciously.

  “You said, I think, that the old Lord Weyland was involved in his wife’s gaming. Did that continue after they were married?”

  “I believe it did.”

  “And . . . do you know what became of him and how it was he died?” she asked. “No one seems to ever speak of his late lordship at all.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Miss Onslow. “I had already left town at that point, but I believe it was sudden, and I believe that it may have been . . . not entirely savory.” She shook her head at her own distant memories. “Appearances are everything, Miss Thorne. Especially to those who are breaking proprieties.” The old woman pulled herself back to the present. “We should, I assume, treat this as one question. Is there another?”

  Rosalind reached into her basket again. “I’ve one more letter here, Miss Onslow. Will you look at it?”

  “Certainly.” She set her plate and glass on the tray and accepted the fresh letter Rosalind handed her. As before, Miss Onslow smoothed out the paper and applied her glass. Again, she did not hurry, but used the same time and care as she had with the others.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am certain of it. The hand that wrote this”—she lifted the defamatory letter—“wrote this.”

  She lifted the letter Rosalind had so recently received from Virginia, paving the way for her audience with the dowager marchioness.

  “Thank you,” said Rosalind. “The truth is, I had my suspicions. I just didn’t like them very much.”

  Rosalind, who bore her own share of heartbreak, had recognized regret and sorrow in Mrs. Cecil Seymore. She had guessed easily that Virginia felt she had married the wrong brother. From there it was not too much of a stretch to imagine that Virginia in a fit of weakness might try to break Captain Seymore’s unhappy marriage apart.

  That was why Virginia had been so startled when Rosalind suggested that she and Margaretta might be friends.

  “You didn’t like your suspicions?” said Miss Onslow. “Or you didn’t like yourself for having them?”

  “A bit of both,” admitted Rosalind. “You must forgive me, Miss Onslow, but my time is very short. I must get back to town at once.”

  “Of course.” Miss Onslow got to her feet, slowly, but smoothly. “Now, since this is a legal matter, I will write to my friend Dr. Montressor on your behalf. He can confirm my findings and give evidence in court if required. I know how the law, like scholarship, prefers to receive its truths from a thoroughly masculine source.”

  “Thank you.” Rosalind also stood. “I am very glad to have met you, Miss Onslow.”

  “And I you, Miss Thorne,” she replied warmly. “Now let us find Herbert and the pony trap and get you back to town.”

  • • •

  It was quite dark by the time Rosalind returned to London, nonetheless the streets were full of life and traffic. The carriages of the rich and fashionable traversed the avenues, taking them to and from the dinners and dances that would close out the season. Rosalind found herself looking at the lighted windows and wondering what was happening on the other side. Who was falling into love and who was falling into hate? What was being said in haste, and what would the people all find themselves waking up to when the cold, gray dawn came again?

  She was tired, not to mention dusty and disheveled from her day’s travel, and much depleted in her purse. Nonetheless, when she reached the coaching house, she immediately asked the man there to help her hire a carriage to take her to Sir and Lady Bertram’s home. The day was done. Tomorrow was Sunday. There could be no trial. But Monday, Monday there could very well be.

  The cab pulled into Soho Square. It was late enough that any crowd that had been gathered around it had cleared off for home or bed, or at least a warm drink, which was yet another reason for coming directly here.

  The lamp beside Sir Bertram’s door had been lit, and firelight slipped from between the tightly drawn drapes on the front window. Someone was home, and awake.

  Nonetheless, Rosalind asked her driver to wait. Her reception would entirely depend on who waited sleepless on the other side of those draperies.

  The liviried footman was smothering a yawn when he answered the door.

  “May I help you?”

  “Is Mrs. Cecil Seymore still awake?” Rosalind asked. “I need to speak with her. The matter is most urgent.”

  The man looked Rosalind up and down in such a way as to make it clear he was doing her a great favor by not simply ordering her to be about her business. At last, however, he stood aside to let her in, instructed her to wait here, and took himself into the parlor. He returned a moment later, and Rosalind followed him into Sir Bertram’s elegant and antique-filled parlor.

  Virginia was already on her feet.

  “Miss Thorne!” she cried. “Whatever is the matter? Is . . . is it William? Or Margaretta?” she added quickly. “Sir and Lady Bertram have gone out . . .”

  “That is just as well,” said Rosalind. In fact, she’d been hoping for it. “I think you do not want them to hear what I have come to say.”

  Virginia’s cheeks turned pale, and she sank back down onto the sofa beside her embroidery hoop.

  Rosalind reached into her basket and brought out the defamatory letter. She handed it to Virginia, who glanced at it, and immediately laid it aside.

  “I do not recognize this,” she said, to the curtained window.

  “Virginia,” said Rosalind sternly. “I know that you wrote this. Please do not compound the problem. We do not have much time if we are to save William.”

  Virginia bit her lip.

  “Why did you send that letter?” asked Rosalind.

  Virginia picked up the paper and stared at it. With one savage gesture, she crumpled it into a ball, and threw it directly to the fire. Rosalind gave a cry and dodged forward, knocking the paper out of the air with her palm so it fell unharmed to the carpet.

  Virginia watched her retrieve it, tears shimmering in her eyes.

  “This house,” said the widow. “This family. I have been inside it too long. If you live surrounded by envy, it warps your perspectives and makes you think that you deserve . . . something. Anything. Just because you want it.”

  “What did you want?” Rosalind returned the crumpled letter to her basket.

  Virginia looked up in mute surprise. “You are such a perceptive woman, Miss Thorne. How is it you’ve missed this?”

  “I don’t think I have.” Rosalind moved the embroidery hoop so she could sit down beside Virginia. “You wanted Captain Seymore. You’re in love with him.”

  Virginia nodded. “He comes here often, you know. Usually on his own, when Margaretta is out . . . somewhere. We talk. He . . . he is not a bad man, Miss Thorne. He just . . . he was dazzled, and he realized too late that enchantment is not love, or the kind of partnership marriage can be, and should be.”

  You felt sorry for him, and you were lonely and unhappy, and all that blossomed into something brighter. But Rosalind kept this to herself. “And because you loved him, and you did not wish to see him continue in his unhappy marriage, you decided to help matters along.”

  Virginia nodded miserably. “I managed to convince myself that Margaretta had indeed betrayed him. That her child was not his.” She swallowed hard. “It is as if I’d contracted the infection from Bertram. You have no idea how much time he and Johanna spend brooding on the title. They are like children staring in the window of a cak
e shop. Bertram will always maunder on, asking why an invalid and an obsequious fool should have so much when he had so little, through a simple accident of birth.” She twisted her fingers together. “When you hear a thought repeated so often, you begin to believe. And when that thought leads you to a way to help someone . . .”

  “Margaretta thinks you are her friend,” Rosalind said.

  “I am. After a fashion. None of this is Margaretta’s fault. I’ve seen her sort before, a lot, actually. She learned early that a certain kind of charm can open the grandest doors. Can I blame her for using her power? Especially when I know perfectly well I would have done the same, had I been able to.” Virginia traced a circle in the air around her plain face.

  “So, you convinced yourself Margaretta had made a cuckold of her husband. You wrote the letters so he would divorce her.”

  Virginia smiled weakly. “He was vacillating. Some days he was sure she was guilty, other days he tried so hard to convince himself she was innocent.” A tear slid down from the corner of her eye. “I thought the letters would make it easier for him to get the divorce, and leave him with fewer regrets. It quickly became obvious, though, that I had only made things worse, so I stopped. But the damage was done. And now . . .” She shook her head. “Now he’s going to the gallows and it’s my fault.”

  “It has not happened yet,” Rosalind said quickly, because Virginia’s hands had begun to tremble. “And it may not happen at all, if we keep our heads. I need you to tell me though, what happened that night? Sir Bertram dined at Captain Seymore’s house. We know that. Then Margaretta left to go to the Hoffmans’. Were you at home here? Did you see what Lady Bertram did?”

  “Johanna did nothing,” said Virginia. “She was home all evening. I dined with the girls in the nursery. Johanna had a tray in her room and then came down to do some sewing. I was writing some letters, of my own, not . . . well.” She gestured toward Rosalind’s basket. “Sir Bertram came home and sat for a time with Lady Bertram. They had their usual conversation about the unfairness of life in general and how the wrong people lived or died. Then, they went to bed, and I stayed up to finish my letters, and to think about my situation, about my girls, about . . .”