The Anatomist's Wife

by Anna Lee Huber

  “I suppose she would be the logical place to start. Just be sure to instruct her not to share our conversation with anyone.”

  • • •

  Lady Godwin’s maid was a tiny Frenchwoman barely four and a half feet in height. She called to mind a little brown mouse. Her hair was a soft sandy brown, and her eyes a deep shade of coffee, ringed in red from crying. Her mouth was thin and tiny, and her nose narrow and pink at the tip. She was curled into a ball at the top of her small bed, clutching a sodden handkerchief when we entered the room she shared with the maid of another guest. She appeared lost and genuinely distressed, as well as a little alarmed by our presence.

  “Are you Faye?” I asked gently, and she nodded hesitantly. “My name is Lady Darby, and this is Mr. Gage.” I noticed she tensed when I mentioned my name. Obviously the servants had been gossiping among themselves. “We wanted to ask you a few questions about your employer.”

  She blinked wide eyes at me and then Gage. “You are zee man who investigates?” she queried in an accent too lilting to be feigned.

  “Yes.”

  She glanced at me again and then reluctantly nodded her agreement to speak with us.

  I sat carefully on the end of her bunk, not wanting to threaten or crowd the skittish maid, who sat up and pulled her knees into her chest. Gage leaned against the wall and crossed his arms and ankles, affecting a casual pose.

  “First, allow me to offer my condolences.” Faye’s eyes widened even further as she peered at me over the hills of her knees. “Lady Godwin was your employer and perhaps your friend. I’m sure you feel the loss.”

  Her eyes saddened once again, drooping at the corners. She nodded.

  “How long have you been Lady Godwin’s lady’s maid?”

  “Mmmm . . . four years,” she hummed.

  “Was she your first employer?”

  “In England? Oui.”

  I nodded. “Was she fair?”

  “Yes,” she replied, and then elaborated timidly. “My lady was demanding. She wants to be most beautiful and . . . très chic. But she was fair.”

  “We’ve been told she took a number of lovers after her husband left for India.” I hoped that by leading into my next question the maid would not become hesitant to speak to us, worrying she was betraying her ladyship. “Do you know this to be true?”

  She studied me for a moment, clearly debating whether to reply. Her shoulders drooped, and she sighed. “Yes.” Then her back stiffened. “Do you zink one of her amours kill her?”

  “We don’t know,” I replied truthfully, exchanging a glance with Gage. “But we think it’s a very real possibility.”

  Faye released her death grip on her knees and leaned her head back against the wall. A fierce frown lowered the corners of her lips. “I tell her such indiscretion not good, but she only laugh at me. A Frenchwoman would never be so careless with her liaisons.”

  “Faye,” I began, trying to decide the most delicate way to phrase what I needed to ask next. “Did Lady Godwin experience an . . . unexpected result from all these encounters?” The maid turned watchful, and I took her silence as encouragement. “Was she enceinte?” I asked bluntly.

  She lowered her eyes and nodded.

  “Do you know how long?”

  “Mmmm . . . five months. Physician say to expect enfant in early December.”

  Which meant that if Lord Marsdale had been honest with us, and he had slept with Lady Godwin around mid-February, he could not be the father. We were looking for someone else.

  “Did Lady Godwin know who the father was?”

  “Yes, but she not tell me. Only say she was pleased.”

  I looked at Gage. He looked just as puzzled as I was. I would have assumed Lady Godwin would be panicked at the realization she was expecting and that her husband had been hundreds of miles away at the time of conception. There was no way of fooling the man into believing it was his.

  “Was she afraid of how her husband would react?”

  Faye shrugged. “Not zat I see. His lordship is . . . how do you say, indulgent, and generally ignore his wife.”

  I doubted Lord Godwin would have been so indulgent when it came to his wife having another man’s child.

  “How many people knew she was expecting?”

  The maid tilted her head in thought. “Me, her physician, mmm . . . I zink she tell her friend Lady Stratford.” She paused. “And maybe her sister. But no one else zat I know.”

  She must have told someone else. Or Lady Stratford had. I glanced at Faye. Or . . .

  “Did you tell anyone? Did the other servants know?”

  Faye shook her head as if offended. “I tell no one. The other servants, zay not speak to me, so I not speak to zem.”

  That must be a lonely existence. No wonder the woman mourned the loss of her employer. But such was the life of ladies’ maids and valets—too lowly for their employers, too high for the other servants of the household. I wondered if she’d made friends with any other ladies’ maids.

  Gage shifted behind me, and I realized I had been gathering wool for too long.

  I cleared my throat. “Did Lady Godwin have any enemies that you are aware of?”

  “Oui,” Faye said adamantly. “She tell me all zee other ladies jealous of her beauty and wanting to be her.” She shook her head angrily. “Zay not like her.”

  I exchanged another glance with Gage. Was the maid truly that blind? Surely she’d seen the other ladies, and certainly Lady Stratford, who was a swan to Lady Godwin’s, or anyone else’s for that matter, duck. I supposed she was only repeating her employer’s words, but I had a hard time accepting that she actually believed them.

  “One more question,” I said. “Did Lady Godwin embroider?”

  Faye seemed taken aback by the question. “No,” she replied in confusion.

  “But did she own any embroidery supplies? Thread, needles, scissors?”

  The maid shook her head. “No. She hate stitching.” She said it as if Lady Godwin equated it to the plague.

  I hid a smile and rose from the end of the bed. “Thank you for answering our questions. For the time being, please keep our conversation to yourself, and if you should remember anything that you think might help us, let Mrs. MacLean know and she will send for one of us.”

  “Of course,” Faye replied. “You will catch him, won’t you? Zee person who did zis?” The maid’s expression was fierce, and I could see tears gathering at the corners of her eyes again. Whether or not anyone else truly cared about Lady Godwin, this maid had.

  I smiled consolingly, thinking of how much I had weighing on the outcome of this as well. “We hope so. We definitely hope so,” I added softly. I felt Gage’s eyes on me but ignored him. “Faye, what is going to happen to you? Do you have a ride back to London?” I asked, concerned that the maid had been forgotten in all the fervor.

  She brushed tears away from the corners of her eyes. “I travel back to London with her ladyship’s body and belongings. Lady Stratford say she make sure I taken care of until I find another position.”

  I thought it spoke well of the countess that she had remembered the maid. Or perhaps it was her lady’s maid who had. I recognized the titian-haired girl who entered the room as the same maid who had let us into Lady Stratford’s apartments and served us tea.

  “Pardon me,” she said as Gage held the door for her when we left and allowed her to slip inside. I peered through the crack in the door as it closed and watched the maid approach Faye’s bed. The Frenchwoman dissolved into tears again upon seeing the woman, who reached out to hug her as the door latched.

  “So her maid knew she was expecting,” Gage commented as we descended the tiny set of stairs leading to the servants’ quarters at the very top of the cas
tle.

  I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm them against the chill of the stairwell and sighed. “Which is not really surprising. A lady’s maid would often be the first to discover such a thing.”

  “Even before the husband?” Gage attempted to jest.

  I shrugged a shoulder. “Depending on the marriage and the husband. I somehow doubt Lord Godwin was familiar enough with his wife’s body that he would have noticed such a thing, even if he were in England.”

  Gage nodded. “But he eventually would have.”

  “Yes. And likely soon, if he hadn’t already. She would have started putting on weight rapidly at this point.” I sighed. “Well, now we know the embroidery scissors aren’t Lady Godwin’s. So whose are they?”

  Gage reached out to open the door at the base of the steps for me. “That’s a good question.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Lady Stratford about them?” I asked as we moved down the hall toward the main staircase.

  “I was still waiting to hear from Lord Cromarty. Your sister and Mrs. MacLean were asked to check the household inventory to make certain they were not part of it. I also had no reason to suspect Lady Stratford had any part in Lady Godwin’s murder.”

  I paused at the top of the stairs and turned to lean against the banister. “That doesn’t mean the killer didn’t take the scissors from her or another lady’s embroidery basket,” I challenged.

  “I realize that, but once we bring out those shears and begin asking everyone whether they recognize them, it will be easier for the owner, and possibly the murderer, to hide the fact that they were missing in the first place. Servants can be bribed, replacements made. It would be easier to catch the culprit unaware. Are you coming downstairs?”

  I supposed his reasoning made sense. But eventually, suspect or no, he was going to have to reveal the discovery of those scissors.

  “No,” I replied, pushing away from the railing. “I think I’ll visit the children in the nursery.”

  Gage’s smile was teasing. “Hiding again, Lady Darby?”

  I lifted my chin to stare down my nose at him. “Just trying to make it more of a challenge for you to find me later,” I replied flippantly and strode down the hall so I didn’t have to see the look in Gage’s eyes that told me he knew I was lying.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I peered through the open doorway of the master suite’s private parlor, glad to find my sister alone. We had not spoken privately since the previous morning, and I was curious how she was holding up under the strain of the past few days. She was seated at the end of a settee upholstered in cream-and-oatmeal-striped silk, her arm draped across the back of the seat and her face turned to the sun shining through the window. I paused, smiling at the pretty picture she made. Her hair, which was two shades lighter than my dark chestnut tresses, appeared tipped in a shade of caramel in the afternoon sunlight. She seemed peaceful, as I had not seen her in weeks since preparations for the house party began. I wondered if perhaps I should not interrupt her, and began to back out of the room.

  But at that moment she turned and opened her eyes. A soft smile lit her face at the sight of me, and she reached out a hand. Unable to resist the pull of the affection in her gaze, I crossed the room and sat down next to her in front of the window.

  “And where have you been all day?” she asked me. “When I went to your room this morning, you were already gone.”

  “Mr. Gage took me with him to speak with Lord Marsdale.”

  “Ah,” she breathed knowingly. She reached around to the back of my head to adjust my hair, pulling several pins out and replacing them. “Are you any closer to finding the killer?” she asked in a deceptively casual tone.

  “I’m afraid not,” I told her. “But we have two and a half days left before the procurator fiscal from Inverness arrives, and I’m going to do everything in my power to catch the culprit before then,” I declared, determination ringing in my voice.

  Alana smiled in gentle amusement. “That would be nice, dear. Believe me, I would like to know that my children are safe again and send all of these people on their way so that I can have my home back. But even if you haven’t caught him by then, I’m sure the procurator fiscal will be grateful for the work you and Mr. Gage have done.”

  I feigned an interest in the pile of color swatches my sister had laid across the back of the settee. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my suspicions about where the blame would fall should we fail to expose the murderer soon. Perhaps tomorrow I would, or the day after, just before the procurator fiscal arrived so that she was prepared, but not now. Not while she was so serene.

  “What are these for?” I asked, changing the subject.

  She sighed. “The children need new clothes for autumn. But I’m having difficulty choosing colors for Philipa.” Her lips quirked wryly. “Especially since she has informed me she now despises pink and yellow.”

  I smiled. That certainly sounded like my niece. Next year pink and yellow would be her favorite colors. “The cinnamon red and bottle green,” I told Alana, tapping the swatches in question.

  “Really?” She reached across me for the stack. “I thought perhaps the cinnamon was too dark for her complexion.”

  It tickled me that Alana was already so concerned with her five-year-old daughter’s wardrobe. “No. It will look lovely with her brown eyes.”

  “All right,” she conceded as she tossed the swatches onto the table. “Well, since that is decided, you can join me for tea.” She stood and shook out her skirts. I stared up at her in confusion. “Well, come on then.”

  “Aren’t we taking tea here?”

  “Of course not. We shall join the other ladies in the drawing room.”

  I nearly groaned. I knew that tone of voice. I knew it, and I hated it. It was the voice of the centuries of obstinate, crusading Scotsmen whose blood flowed through our veins. And it had been my great misfortune to be too often the supposed beneficiary of Alana’s own brand of stubborn valor.

  When I was six, she boosted me onto the back of our father’s newest gelding in an effort to convince our sire I was ready to ride a horse like my older siblings instead of a pony. Her plan only succeeded in giving me a sore bottom; first from being thrown from the gelding, and later from the thrashing I received from Father for the stunt.

  At fourteen, when I still felt gawky and uncomfortable with the changes to my body, Alana dressed me in one of her gowns and dragged me to the May Day fair in Kelso. She was determined to prove to our neighbors that I was not unattractive or strange. It seemed to work, until a baron’s son tried to kiss me and I sneezed in his face. Apparently, no one else thought he smelled too strongly of his cologne, and my protestations that it had tickled my nose fell on deaf ears.

  At eighteen, it was a handful of gentlemen mocking my first private art exhibition at our family’s London residence. At twenty-one, a debutante who felt she should be allowed to purchase the blue dress I had chosen for my wedding gown because she claimed it made my eyes look possessed. At twenty-four, a mere month after Sir Anthony’s death and the accusations that followed, it was the lords and ladies who strolled in front of the shops on Bond Street, whispering about my crimes and unnatural tendencies as Alana and I purchased a few last-minute items in preparation for our journey to Gairloch. None of those situations had worked out well for me when Alana stepped in. The gentlemen had begun wagers in the betting books at the gentlemen’s clubs that no one would marry me for three years—they won, just barely. The wedding gown was spitefully ripped by the debutante, and I was still shunned and whispered about by the lords and ladies.

  And now Alana wanted us to confront a drawing room filled with gossiping harpies who believed me capable of murder.

  As much as I loved my sister and appreciated her righteous indignation on my behalf, ther
e were times when I wished she would simply leave well enough alone.

  “I would prefer to have tea here,” I told her, prepared to argue my point.

  “I’m sure you would. And I can hardly blame you. However . . .” She adopted her lady-of-the-manor voice, the one she had been practicing since the age of seven, somehow knowing she would be a countess someday. “I am not going to let my guests dictate who sits in my drawing room and who does not. This is your home, too, Kiera. And if I want to drink tea with you, I can do so anywhere I please.”

  “Alana,” I pleaded.

  “No. My mind is firm on this. If Lady Westlock and her fellow harpies are not pleased by your presence, they can eat their biscuits in the dungeons for all I care.”

  “Please, Alana.” I clasped my hands together to beg. “Now is not the time”

  “If not now, then when?” My sister perched on the edge of the settee next to me and took hold of my hands. “It will not stop. It never will, unless we do something about it. Now.” She raised and lowered our joined hands in emphasis. “I’m tired of watching you fade into the shadows. You were always quiet and reserved around company, but you never ran away and hid. Not until you married Sir Anthony.”

  I glanced away from her, not wanting to be reminded of the way I was before corpses became such central figures in my life. It had been so long now that sometimes I wasn’t sure if I had ever lived without their specters hanging over my head.

  “At the time, it seemed for the best, but sometimes . . .” Alana sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing by allowing you to hide away here at Gairloch.”

  I looked into Alana’s saddened eyes, worrying again that I had caused my sister and her family irreparable harm by staying here.

  She smiled sadly. “The reason I haven’t mentioned this before was for purely selfish motives. I wanted you here. I had more trouble recovering after Greer was born than I had with the others, and I was floundering a bit.” She sucked in a deep breath, blinking her eyes to hold back the wetness shining there. She often got this way when she thought about that difficult time. I had to swallow back my answering emotion. “It was so good to have you here with me. And every time I contemplate your leaving, it feels like someone is cutting out a part of me.” She breathed in and exhaled sharply. “However, that time is coming.”