by C. J. Archer
"What's the current Lord Harcourt like?" I asked.
"Very different to Andrew, his brother," Seth said. "He doesn't gamble, and stopped attending most social engagements once he secured his bride. They rarely come to London and live quietly on the family estate. I didn't know him well, but he seems like a steady fellow, much like his father."
Gus laid out the Spode tea set on the tray. "Wonder if he topped his stepmother too."
"Gus!" both Seth and I cried. Cook chuckled into his chins.
"Go and look out for them," Seth said, shooing Gus off with a sweep of his hands.
"Why can't you do it?" Gus grumbled.
"Because Lord Harcourt will remember me."
"Aw, poor Seth, embarrassed that he has to stoop to my level, eh?" He dodged Seth's fist and shot his friend a grin from the doorway. Seth responded with a crude hand gesture that set Cook chuckling again.
"It's hard on you, isn't it?" I said gently. "Forced to serve the people you once socialized with."
"It's not so bad. I've never been all that proud anyway, and I am grateful to have a roof over my head and my debts paid. But the Buchanan brothers are of a similar age to me, and we have several acquaintances in common. Or should I say, had them in common. Andrew has offended most, and Donald—Lord Harcourt—has simply not remained in touch. And I've only kept up with a few."
"Aye, the wives," Cook added.
I patted Seth's arm. "Don't envy Andrew Buchanan or his brother too much. They appear to have problems of their own."
"At least their mother didn't run off to America with the second footman."
Gus entered and announced the coach was approaching, then he disappeared again to open the front door. Upon his return, he reported on the initial encounter between Lincoln and Lord Harcourt. It was their first meeting, apparently.
"Fitzroy told his lordship that he was doing everything he could to find his brother, and you know what Harcourt said?" Gus shook his head. "He said he supposed his brother was just up to his rapscallion, selfish ways again, and he'd turn up sooner or later."
"He's not worried about him at all?" I asked.
"Not that I could tell. The dowager lady looked like she wanted to clock him there in the entrance hall. She said it weren't like Buchanan to disappear for this long, partic'larly without clothes, money, nothing."
"And what did the other Lady Harcourt say?"
"Nothing, just stared daggers at her mother-in-law."
"And Fitzroy? How did he respond?"
"Said he was going to continue looking for him anyway, as a favor to his friend, the dowager. Can't go mentioning the ministry to his lordship without a bunch of questions coming up."
"Or the occult books," Seth said. "Fitzroy did the right thing in not talking about the ministry."
Seth seemed determined to remain in the kitchen, so when it came time to deliver the cake and tea, I volunteered to help Gus.
"You can't carry a tray and use the walking stick," Gus told me. "Let Lord Muck do it."
Seth pouted and heaved a sigh. I set aside my stick and picked up the tray with the cake and plates. "Come on. Follow me."
I did my best not to hobble or limp and discovered my foot didn't hurt much. Perhaps I could dispense with the walking stick altogether. Lincoln's gaze narrowed upon seeing me enter the parlor, and I suspected he would admonish Seth later for allowing me to serve.
I conducted myself as any good maid would and didn't acknowledge the guests, not even Lady Harcourt—the dowager, that is. I did, however, study them from beneath lowered lashes as I sliced the cake.
The younger Lady Harcourt was a short woman with nut-brown hair arranged in ringlets that spilled out from beneath her brown, wide-brimmed hat. The ringlets gave her soft, round face a sweet youthfulness. That very same soft roundness made it difficult to see her eyes, sunken into the puffy flesh as they were. Her high lace collar frothed beneath her multiple chins, in an attempt to hide them, I suspected, but the russet colored skirt and matching jacket brought out the apples of her cheeks. Beside her mother-in-law, she looked like a country school mistress, and I think she felt it too, if her twiddling fingers were an indication. She had moved herself to one end of the sofa, as far away from the dowager as possible, as if she were afraid of breathing the same air as her.
The dowager seemed not to notice. She was as elegant as always in her perky black hat with a lavender trim, and tight black princess-cut gown with smart jacket buttoned to the collar. It was the plainest, most demure ensemble I'd seen her wear. She tended to wear half-mourning now, so the full black seemed like a regression. I suspected she wanted to play the part of grieving widow out of respect for her stepson.
"I'm sorry I cannot give you more names," Lord Harcourt was saying to Lincoln. "Those were Andrew's closest friends growing up, but I'm afraid I know little of my brother's acquaintances nowadays."
"It doesn't matter," Lincoln said. "I have already gathered the names of several more."
Lady Harcourt pounced on the slice of cake I served her, but the dowager refused hers with a mere flick of her finger. She did not meet my gaze. Lord Harcourt accepted a piece, allowing me to study him. He was a moderately handsome man, although not striking, like his younger brother, with fair hair and a strong jawline. But whereas I'd only seen Buchanan's mouth lurch into a lazy sneer, Harcourt's remained in a flat line. He was softer in the middle too, his jacket struggling to contain the bulge. He needed to have a new one made, which told me his weight gain was new, or he was perhaps unconcerned with his appearance.
"Your father's journal was found in your brother's rooms," Lincoln said. "It's possible his disappearance is related to something he read in it."
"Or it may not be," Harcourt said.
"We must turn over every stone, even those that seem small and insignificant."
I almost tripped over my own feet upon hearing my phrase quoted. Fortunately I wasn't holding anything, and no one seemed to notice.
"If you must." Lord Harcourt accepted tea from Gus. The lines scoring his forehead drew together as he took in Gus's lack of livery. He pursed his lips ever so slightly and exchanged a glance with his wife. She didn't appear to notice. Having finished her cake, she'd taken to staring at the rug, her face blank.
"Do you have the journal here?" the dowager asked Lincoln.
"It's in my study, but I recall most of the details." At Lord Harcourt's questioning look, he added, "I have a very good memory."
"Is anything in the journal of particular interest?" she asked casually. Too casually. Where before she seemed quite concerned about her missing stepson, she now seemed as if she were merely tossing out the question as a matter of course. Her gaze didn't meet anyone's either, yet she gripped the teacup firmly. I suspected she wasn't asking in relation to Buchanan's disappearance but her own secret.
If either Lord or Lady Harcourt noticed, they gave no indication. He was waiting for Lincoln's answer, and she continued to stare at the rug, her expression unchanged. She lifted her cup to her lips, sipped daintily, then set it down again in the saucer in her lap, all without blinking. I'd never seen an automaton before but Seth had described one to me once, and to my mind, it resembled Lady Harcourt's empty expression.
"One name in the journal caught my attention," Lincoln said. "It was written in bold lettering and underlined heavily. It was important to your father, at least, and perhaps Andrew recognized it."
"The name?" his lordship prompted.
"Estelle Pearson."
The younger Lady Harcourt dropped her cup, spilling the tea over the rug, and swooned into the corner of the sofa.
Chapter 5
Lincoln was the first to reach Lady Harcourt. Her husband was next. The dowager twisted on the sofa but didn't rise. She picked up a weekly newspaper from the table beside her and handed it to her stepson.
"Flap that in front of her face," she instructed. "And loosen her collar. It's much too high and tight."
Lord Harcourt
did as instructed, while Lincoln stepped back. "Fetch the smelling salts," he told Gus.
Gus rushed out but Lady Harcourt was already coming around. She placed a hand to her chest and opened her eyes.
"Donald?" she said weakly.
"It's all right, my dear." He patted the back of her hand. "You fainted."
"I have been feeling a little unwell lately."
"Charlie, more tea," the dowager ordered. "Marguerite, you look quite peaky. Tea will put the color back in your cheeks."
I poured tea into the cup that had been intended for Lincoln but he'd refused, and passed it into the shaking hands of Lady Harcourt just as Gus returned carrying a green glass bottle of smelling salts. He gave the bottle to his lordship, who waved it under his wife's nose.
She drew in a deep sniff that ended in a snort. "Thank you, I feel much better. I'm so sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Fitzroy." She sipped her tea then set it aside.
"Think nothing of it," Lincoln said.
I eyed the rug and wondered how long it would be before I could soak up the tea. It was imperative to get to spills early to stop staining. I knew that from having once deliberately spilled tea on Lincoln's floor in his sitting room. The stain was still there, a permanent reminder of my temper.
"I think my wife would like to retire to Harcourt House," Lord Harcourt said, referring to the Mayfair home of the dowager and Andrew Buchanan. She had inherited it from her husband upon his death, leaving his youngest son with nothing. Buchanan must have resented being overlooked, but as far as I was aware, Lincoln had not questioned her about it. He'd not questioned her about much at all.
"Of course," he said, taking Lady Harcourt's arm while her husband took the other. Together they helped her to stand. "Before you go, the name of Estelle Pearson…does it mean anything to you?"
"No," Lord Harcourt said. "I've never heard it."
"Nor have I," Lady Harcourt said, leaning heavily on her husband's arm. "Once again, thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Fitzroy. You've been most kind." Her eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled.
The dowager rose and settled her hand on Lincoln's. "A word," she intoned, as Lord and Lady Harcourt exited the parlor slowly, Gus having gone ahead to assist with coats.
"Is this regarding Estelle Pearson?"
"No. I don't know who that is. It's regarding Miss Overton."
Ugh. The sweet and lovely Miss Overton who lacked spine and character; the girl the dowager Lady Harcourt was encouraging Lincoln to court.
"Not now, Julia. I must see to my guests." For someone who rarely gave away his thoughts or feelings, he sounded quite irritated.
She clung to his arm, anchoring him in the way only a lady can anchor a gentleman. He was much too polite to extricate himself. At least, I hoped it was merely politeness keeping him locked to her. "She and her mother are dining with me tomorrow night. I told them you would be there."
"Julia, that was unwise. You'll have to make my excuses."
"Can you not carve a little time out of your schedule for her? She's quite besotted with you, and you know how marvelous a wife she would make."
"Julia. Stop this." He removed himself from her grasp and headed to the door with long, purposeful strides as if he couldn't get out fast enough.
"You know she's perfect for you," she called after him. But he was already gone. "He does know it. He'll succumb sooner or later." She wasn't in the habit of talking to herself, so I knew her words were meant for me. Had the entire scene been for my benefit? She suspected I had feelings for Lincoln, so perhaps she was trying to show me that I could never have him when there were far more eligible women in London. She wanted him to marry but not to her. Although she claimed to love him, Lady Harcourt had admitted that he wasn't wealthy or titled enough for her. So she was trying to place him with a wife he could never love. One who could never supplant the place she believed that she herself held in Lincoln's heart.
I'd been quite sure there was no longer a piece of his heart reserved for her, but since his refusal to question her about her past at The Alhambra, my conviction had wavered. It was only a short step from sympathy and admiration to love.
I watched her glide out of the parlor with a dancer's confidence and grace, then collected the dishes and returned to the kitchen, while Lincoln farewelled his guests. Gus was already there, regaling Seth and Cook with details of Lady Harcourt's swoon.
"It were in reaction to hearing the name," he said with all-knowing solemnity. "She knows the Pearson woman."
"Or has heard her name before," I added. "I wish Fitzroy had questioned her about it."
"One does not question a lady over matters that have caused her to faint," Seth said. "Particularly when she pretends it was ill health."
"One doesn't, does one?" I said in my best imitation of him.
"No. One waits until he corners her alone." He winked at me. "I suspect that's what Fitzroy will do."
"I wouldn't be so sure. For one thing, how will he get her alone?"
"Climb into her room tonight," Gus offered with a shrug, as if it was something Lincoln did frequently.
"But her room must be on the third floor at least!"
"That ain't a problem. The problem will be doin' it quiet enough that she won't scream the place down first."
I put my hands up in protest. He was being ridiculous. Lincoln wouldn't climb into Lady Harcourt's room in the night. I asked him as much when he joined us.
"No," he said. "Her constitution is too delicate. She'll probably faint again. I can't get answers out of an unconscious woman."
I didn't know why I was surprised. If Lincoln wanted answers, he would get them any way he saw fit, gentlemanliness be damned. "Then what do you propose?" I asked. "It was clear to everyone that she knew the name Estelle Pearson. We have to find out how she knows her."
He glanced at the clock on the shelf. "I'll inquire at the General Registry Office tomorrow. A birth, marriage or death record will at least narrow down the parish or parishes the Pearson woman has lived in."
"I don't think Lady Harcourt likes her mother-in-law," I said, removing three cloths from the top drawer.
Lincoln tilted his head a little. "Why do you say that?"
"She couldn't sit far enough away from her, for one thing, and I never heard them exchange a single word or even a friendly glance. I thought it odd, considering they are quite close in age and have family matters in common."
"I see." He nodded slowly. "Thank you for your observation."
I limped into the scullery and dipped one of the cloths into the pail we kept filled with cold water by the back door, then fetched a canister of baking powder from the pantry and one of Cook's mixing bowls. Since my adopted mother had a housekeeper, I'd never learned how to make cleaning pastes or remove stains in my childhood like the girls who'd been thrust into service at a young age. When he'd seen my dilemma, early in my tenure as Lichfield's maid, Gus had called upon his great aunt and asked her to reveal the secrets she'd learned in forty years as a charwoman. He'd taken dictation and given me eight-pages of densely packed scrawl, rolled up and secured with a piece of string. It was still my most treasured possession, even over my cloak from Lincoln.
I returned to the kitchen only to find Lincoln gone. He was waiting for me in the parlor. Or rather, perhaps not waiting for me, just for me to bring the materials for cleaning the rug. He looked up from the tea stain and held out his hand.
"Pass me the powder."
"You have to soak up the excess liquid first," I told him.
"Then pass me a cloth."
"I can do it."
"Allow me, Charlie. You should be off that foot."
"I'm perfectly capable of performing my duties, thank you."
I set the cloths, bowl and canister down on a table and he picked up one of the dry cloths while I picked up another. It would seem he wouldn't be swayed from helping. So be it. I doubted I could change his mind, no matter what I said.
We worked in sil
ence, side by side, to soak up as much of the spilled tea as possible. I wanted to ask him for his thoughts on Lady Harcourt's invitation to dine with Miss Overton, but decided against it. It was not the sort of discussion an employee had with her employer, and he'd made it clear that was what we were to one another from now on. Nothing more.
To my surprise, he brought the subject up, however. "I have no intention of marrying Miss Overton," he said.
I stopped sponging and sat back on my haunches. "Lady Harcourt thinks she'll make a good wife since she's so…malleable," I said, borrowing a term from Seth.
"I don't want a malleable wife." His sponging became more aggressive, stamping the cloth into the damp rug in time to the beat of my heart. "Or any other sort of wife. I won't be marrying at all. Not Miss Overton, Lady Harcourt or…anyone. Marriage is not for me."
The cold tea from my cloth seeped into the skin on my palm. I stared at it and blinked. My eyes were dry, thankfully. I didn't want to shed any more tears for him. Not over this. Unrequited love was pathetic, and I detested being so needful. I'd managed for years without needing anyone's love, and I would do so again. It was time to move on and be thankful for what I did have. I had so much more than most. "Why are you telling me this? You don't owe me an explanation."
"I do. I didn't want you thinking that I was in the habit of kissing a woman one day then setting her aside to marry another the next. I won't marry you, Charlie, but I won't marry another either. It's imperative that you understand that."
"Is it?" I couldn't keep the disdain out of my voice. At least disdain was better than sounding confused and wistful, which was how I felt.
He stopped sponging. "You mock me."
"No, I… I don't know what to say or do or think." It helped to hear his stance on marriage in general. It was one thing to not be able to keep him to myself, but it would be worse to see him wed another woman, even if it were a marriage of convenience to a spineless twit like Miss Overton.
"Is it ready for the powder now?" he asked.
