As Death Draws Near

by Anna Lee Huber

  Gage relented with an aggrieved sigh, gripping my elbow to help me thread through the people between us and Marsdale.

  He grinned up at us, taking a swig from his glass. “Fancy meetin’ you here.” He gestured with his head. “Take a seat.”

  As Gage helped me into my chair, Marsdale swiveled about to see us better, nearly dislodging the woman from his leg. From her appearance and the way one of the men behind the bar was barking at her across the room, I surmised she was one of the barmaids. She shrieked a response back at the man, but I could not for the life of me understand what she’d said. Something impertinent, clearly, for those listening nearby laughed.

  “What brings ye to this fine establishment?” Marsdale slurred.

  “We could ask you the same thing,” Gage replied with a sharp glance.

  “I thought ye woulda been tucked in cozy at the Priory by now,” Marsdale continued as if he hadn’t heard him.

  “They weren’t ready for us. So we took ourselves away to give them some time.”

  He nodded. “Same. Dashed Hodgens wasn’t home, and his staff didn’t know when to expect him.” He eyed the dark-haired lass on his lap with half-lidded eyes. “So I decided an evening enjoying the pleasures at the local tavern wouldn’t be remiss.”

  I barely refrained from rolling my eyes when the barmaid giggled, pressing her ample chest against his arm.

  Unfortunately for her, Marsdale seemed to have only part of his attention fixed on her. “Then ye haven’t eaten. Colleen, love, be a dear and fetch my friends a bowl of that splendid stew and some ale.”

  “’Course, a mhuirnín.”

  He watched her appreciatively for a moment as she strolled away swaying her hips, before leaning forward to rest his elbows against the rough wood of the table. “So tell me. What did you find out about my cousin?”

  I studied Marsdale’s eyes, realizing he wasn’t quite as foxed as I’d assumed, and wondering for whom he’d been pretending.

  Gage, for his part, was surreptitiously glancing around us, trying to gauge who, if anyone, had heard what Marsdale had said. “A little more quietly, if you please.”

  Marsdale’s back straightened. “My apologies. But surely you can tell me something.” His voice dropped even lower. “Do you know how she died?” His eyes were earnest behind their intoxicated sheen.

  I shook my head. “We don’t know.”

  His mouth opened as if to argue, and I reached out a hand to forestall him.

  “No, truly. She almost certainly died from a blow to the head, but whether she was struck with something from behind or fell and hit her head, we cannot say for sure.”

  “But they must believe she was struck; otherwise they wouldn’t have asked you here.”

  His mind was quick. And his voice loud. Several curious onlookers glanced our way, their eyes gleaming with interest.

  “Yes, there’s more. But we’re not going to discuss it here.” Gage arched his eyebrows toward the people clustered around the table over my shoulder.

  It was clear from the mutinous line of his mouth that Marsdale wanted to object, but he must have recognized the foolishness in doing so. Gage would not be budged. Besides, the fewer people who knew the details about his cousin’s death, the better chance there would be that a killer might slip up and reveal too much. So instead he nodded begrudgingly and took another deep swig of his ale.

  Colleen returned then with our food and drinks, but had to dash off again to do her job, I imagined. I was pleased to discover Marsdale was right. The stew was delicious—warm, and thick, and perfectly seasoned. I sighed in contentment and glanced up to find both men watching me with gentle amusement. Ignoring them, I reached for my glass and turned the conversation back on Marsdale.

  “Maybe you can help us.”

  His eyebrows lifted in query as I took a drink of my ale. It had a roasted, almost burnt, flavor and a bitter fullness to it, which was actually quite pleasant with the heartiness of the stew.

  I glanced at Gage, who I noticed had already drained half of his glass. “What can you tell us of your cousin’s life before she came to the abbey? What was she like?”

  Marsdale sat back in his chair, tipping his glass to stare at the last two fingers of its mahogany-colored contents. “Harriet? She was . . . well, I suppose we all thought of her as a little mother. The other cousins and me.” His eyes lifted to meet mine. “You know the type. Responsible and patient. Ever standing to the side, watching indulgently as we played our childish games and got into mischief, as if waiting for us to finally grow up. But she was a pip, Harriet was. Never ratted us out and, more often than not, helped us clean up whatever mess we’d gotten ourselves into.”

  “And knowing you, I imagine that was no mean feat,” I muttered under my breath.

  His eyes sparkled in agreement.

  “You said you hadn’t seen her in some time?” Gage prodded. His own eyes had taken on a lazy glimmer as he emptied his first glass and reached for the second, which Colleen had slipped by to bring him, pausing only long enough to toss him a saucy smile. As she walked away, her green eyes narrowed at Marsdale, who was no longer paying her any mind.

  “Yes. Her family lived in Dublin. And when they visited London, I was too busy to bother with them.” He tipped his glass back, draining the remainder of his ale. Whatever his true feelings about his cousin, one thing was clear. He was trying very hard to make us think he didn’t care.

  He set his glass back on the table with a thunk. His brow furrowed as if maybe he’d had a sudden thought and then smoothed out again. “As you’ve undoubtedly already gathered, I’m not a man who cares much for kith and kin. But the last time I heard anything of Harriet was perhaps a year ago, and somehow I’d gathered the impression she was engaged to be married.”

  I looked up in surprise, glancing briefly at Gage, who had also stilled.

  “I can’t remember why. I likely wasn’t attending well to whatever relative was speaking to me, and it’s almost certain I’ve mixed her up with another of my benighted cousins. But all the same, you can see why I was more than a little shocked to hear she’d joined a convent.” He flicked his hand. “Well, that, and the whole papist thing.”

  Gage’s eyes met mine across the table, and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. I knew he was right. That line of inquiry was almost certain to be a waste of our time. After all, Marsdale was not the most reliable of men, even when he wasn’t slumping in his chair, half bosky. It would be better to wait and see if Miss Lennox’s parents mentioned it in their reply to the letter Gage had posted from Howth when we reached port.

  In any case, it seemed wise for us to leave before we started any trouble, whether intentional or not. I’d already noticed a cluster of rowdy men pushing and jostling each other near the bar in not an altogether friendly way, and more than one of our table neighbors had overheard Marsdale’s last comment. I felt their stares. As eager as I was to gather information, I knew that tonight was not the time to be asking questions, not when Marsdale was a trifle disguised and Gage, swallowing his third pint, was growing drowsy. My wits might have been slowed by fatigue, but I recognized the wisdom of retreat when nothing could be gained from the field. We left Marsdale brooding in his chair, hoping he was astute enough to either retire to some private room with Colleen or return to his friend’s lodge before he spoke out of turn and got himself pummeled.

  I had my hands full enough dealing with Gage, who had the tendency to become rather amorous when he’d had a significant amount to drink. Prude or not, I was not about to let this lead to its inevitable conclusion in a hired carriage with barely a mile and a half to travel. It would have been embarrassing enough to emerge rumpled and pink-cheeked from our own conveyance with our dependable John Coachman in the box, let alone a stranger. As it was, my coiffure and gown’s integrity did not quite withstand Gage’s rather persu
asive embrace entirely intact.

  I passed the Priory’s butler with as much dignity as I could muster, and allowed one of the maid’s to lead me up the stairs to the bedchamber Gage and I had been assigned. Bree was there waiting for me, and from the twinkle that entered her eye at the sight of me, I was quite certain she knew how we had been diverting ourselves between the tavern and here. Gage had paused to speak to the butler, so I sat down on the padded silk bench before the dressing table and allowed her to begin pulling pins from my hair.

  Everything was arranged as usual across the oak table’s surface, a bit of familiarity in otherwise strange environs. In the reflection of the mirror, I could see the room was not large, though it was more than enough space to suit our purposes. A simple four-poster bed covered in a crisp white counterpane speckled with lace held pride of place in the middle of the wall directly behind me between two tall windows draped in layers of powder blue and sheer white curtains. With the shade cast by the trees crowded around the manor, I suspected heavier drapes were not necessary to block out the early morning light. A massive wardrobe stood in one corner next to a washstand and dresser, while on the opposite side of the chamber a fireplace sat empty and swept clean. Blocks of peat were stacked in a basket to the side, ready to be lit. I had no desire for a fire now, but I had felt the chill in the air as I scampered from the carriage into the house, and I knew by morning I should wish one.

  Bree had just finished untangling my hair, and I’d ordered her to forgo the usual braid and pull it back in a simple queue, when Gage suddenly entered. He barely spared us a glance, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed to pull his traveling boots off. Bree paused in the midst of her task, perhaps a bit disconcerted by his failure to knock as he usually did before he entered. This was a strange house, and so our routines were unsettled, but it was unlike him to forgo such a politeness. However, when he collapsed back into the bedding with a groan of contentment, still dressed in his clothes, Bree smiled knowingly to herself.

  Her gaze lifted to meet mine in the reflection of the mirror, telling me she’d guessed at the source of his befuddlement. “Did ye enjoy yer meal and yer ale, m’lady?”

  “Yes. As did Gage.” I flicked my eyes toward where he still rested with his eyes closed and his hands clasped over his abdomen.

  But apparently he was still conscious and knew me well, for he mumbled, “Don’t look at me like that. ’Twas only two glasses.”

  “Three,” I corrected him without condemnation. Normally three glasses of ale on a night should not have mattered, but he was tired and he had drunk them rather quickly.

  His only response was a muffled, “Oh.”

  “Aye, well, I’d take care.” There was laughter in Bree’s voice. “The Irish brew their ale like everythin’ else. Strong. And you bein’ a foreigner and a man, they willna wait for ye to finish yer glass afore they bring ye another. They consider that hospitality.”

  I rose from my seat and allowed Bree to begin unfastening the buttons down the back of my dress. “I believe we may have more need of you than even we realized,” I told her over my shoulder, thinking of all the things she’d already explained to us. “The difference between a postulant and other nuns, for example.”

  I felt Bree’s fingers fumble for a fraction of a second on one of the buttons before continuing their deft work. “Yes. I s’pose I ken more aboot the Irish from my granny than the rest o’ you do.”

  Gage hadn’t moved, but I could tell he was listening from his position on the bed, and I hesitated over whether to say more or wait until Bree and I were alone. But I knew he must have formed the same questions, and I would almost certainly tell him whatever she said regardless, so I voiced the suspicion that had been nagging at my mind.

  “Is that all?” I asked gently.

  With my back to her and being turned away from the mirror, I couldn’t see her face, but if it were possible, I could hear her thinking furiously. I didn’t press, knowing that if what I suspected was true, it would be no small thing for her to admit. A clock I hadn’t even realized was there ticked softly away on the mantel.

  When Bree reached the bottom of the tiny row of buttons, she inhaled deeply, as if facing the inevitable. “I was raised Roman Catholic, if that’s what ye mean.”

  It was indeed. “By your granny?”

  She reached in to begin tugging at the laces of my corset. “Aye. An’ my mam.”

  I allowed my posture to sag as the pressure holding my spine upright was released. “Are you still?”

  Another slight hesitation. “I s’pose so.”

  “But you’ve always attended St. Cuthbert’s in Elwick with the other servants and my family. And St. George’s in Edinburgh,” I argued, trying to understand.

  “Because it wasn’t possible to attend mass. All o’ the mass houses were too far away. And it simply became habit to go wi’ the family once we moved to Edinburgh.”

  I pulled my arms from the sleeves of my carriage dress and corset, allowing the gown to pool on the floor as Bree whisked away my corset, and I pivoted to look at her. Her expression was tight, her cheeks flushed with chagrin.

  She shrugged. “I ken it goes against what I was taught, but I reckon the Lord dinna mind where I go, so long as I does.”

  She turned away to deposit my corset on the table and retrieve my nightdress, shaking the folds loose. I knew how I was supposed to react, that I should be shocked and horrified that my maid was a Catholic, but I couldn’t seem to summon such a response. I knew Bree. I knew her heart—or at least, I thought I did—and it was good.

  Ever since I was a child, we had been taught that Catholics needed to be saved from themselves. That they were superstitious and beholden to immoral traditions, and loyal only to the Pope. That the only way they could be a good British subject was to convert. But Bree had never seemed any less loyal or more superstitious than most of the Anglicans and Protestants I knew. And neither had the reverend mother or Mother Paul.

  Perhaps I was supposed to berate her, to scold her for her sinful ways and demand she convert or else be dismissed. I knew any number of ladies who would have done so, that their husbands would have insisted upon it. But I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe this was a failing on my part. Maybe it was a fault I would be taken to task for at heaven’s pearly gates. But it was a risk I was willing to take seeing as the alternative option seemed far more harmful. I would certainly have difficulty embracing the faith of a people who rebuked me and then forced my conversion, and I couldn’t imagine Bree was any different.

  I remembered how our cook at Blakelaw House used to harangue me and my siblings with Bible verses whenever she witnessed or heard of us misbehaving. As a young child, I was made to feel horribly guilty, but when I grew old enough to recognize some of the verses and the manner in which she was misusing them, I all but ignored her. She’d done no good but to rile us and make us determined not to become sanctimonious hypocrites.

  That memory brought me up short as Bree dropped my fine linen nightrail over my head, making me recall something else my maid had confided in me. “Is that one of the reasons Cook beat you?” I asked softly.

  Dark recollections swam through the depths of Bree’s brown eyes. “Aye.”

  I clenched my teeth against the desire to curse. Bree had worked as a kitchen maid at Blakelaw House for several years before being promoted to upstairs maid and then my lady’s maid half a year ago. Unbeknownst to my father and me—when I had still lived there before marrying Sir Anthony—the cook had tormented her, eventually almost beating her to death with a rolling pin. My father had fired the cook and seen that Bree’s injuries were taken care of, but the damage had been done, despite Bree’s assurances to the contrary. I had seen the way she shrank from quick movements, much the way I did, but for a different reason. The sound of a shrill woman’s voice almost visibly sent the hair bristling down h
er back.

  She stooped to gather up my dress and shoes, tossing the former over her arm before she swiveled back toward the dressing table to slam shut the lock box with my necklace and earrings nestled inside. She wedged this into the bottom right drawer.

  “Well, under the circumstances, I’m glad of your upbringing.” I told her as she straightened, knowing I had to say something. “Neither Gage nor I have the slightest notion about Catholics, or abbeys, or what troubles they might face, and I suspect we shall need your expertise if we are to solve Miss Lennox’s murder.” I pressed a hand to my brow wearily. “If it’s murder at all.”

  She stood staring at me with a rather flustered expression on her face.

  “Have you had a chance to write to your brother?” I asked, wondering if our discussion might have dredged up memories of her earlier life.

  “I . . .” She paused and then bent over to collect something she’d dropped. “Not yet.”

  “Did they assign you adequate accommodations somewhere?” I knew she must be as tired as, if not more so, than I was, and here I was keeping her.

  She nodded. “Aye. I’m to share a room wi’ one o’ the maids. Far as I can tell, the girl is quiet and tidy, so it’ll do.”

  “Then I should let you seek your own bed. Good night.”

  She picked up the candleholder by the door. “Good night, m’lady.”

  I waited until the door shut before crossing the room to crawl into bed next to Gage. His long body weighted the covers down so that I had wriggle my legs to slide underneath. Before I blew out the candle beside the bed and lay down, I turned to find him watching me with somnolent eyes.

  I think I half expected him to chide me for not taking issue with Bree’s Catholicism, but instead he murmured in a drowsy-deep voice. “You’re right. We do need her.” He grunted as he tried to roll himself toward the edge of the bed. “I think I know more about steam locomotives than I do Roman Catholics.”

  “Steam locomotives?” I asked in amusement as I pushed him, helping him to gain his momentum.