I summoned my most fond smile, even as my fingers curled into claws. If Helen were still here, I might be tempted to murder myself. “Perhaps you misheard, Violet,” I said gently, “but all that is in the past. You and your papa and I will make a new family now, and I assure you I truly care about you and will spend time with you, just as I have since I came here. Is that all right with you?”
For a moment she stared at me, her dark eyes wide, then she threw herself into my arms, clinging tight, sobs shaking her small body. I rested my chin on top of her head and vowed that if I did nothing else as mistress of Falconfell, I would make certain Violet had love in her life.
Chapter Fourteen
Intent on changing out of my rose silk, the bodice now well salted with tears, I threw open the door to my bedchamber and had one foot over the threshold before I stopped short, my eyes widening as I absorbed the odd feel of the room. No Bess, no change of garments laid out on the bed . . .
I examined the room more thoroughly. No brush, comb, or hand mirror on the dresser. I rushed to the wardrobe. No gowns, no bonnets, no slippers, no half-boots. In short, the room was empty of every evidence I had lived in it for nearly a fortnight.
Bess burst through the door. “Ah, miss—my lady! I intended to be here when you returned, but Lord Hammersley’s had us fetching and carrying—” At the look on my face, she broke off, rushing into a babble of apology. “I’m right sorry, my lady, but he gave us no notice, just up and told us right after the wedding to move everything to the mistress’s suite.”
There was no way of hiding my shock from Bess. Like the veriest addlepate, I gaped. Somehow in all the unseemly haste to the wedding, I had failed to think beyond the moment.
I was to sleep in Helen’s bed? The bed she died in but a fortnight ago?
It was the way of the world, I told myself. But surely never so precipitately.
I sat down hard on the nearest chair.
“The footmen changed the mattress, my lady. And we burned pastilles.”
I ducked my head into my hands. When had the hard-headed nurse become an overly sensitive nincompoop? I, who had spent the better part of a decade in sickrooms . . . I, who had seen multiple deaths, as well as wasting diseases, fevers, delusions, and agonizing births. To have come to this—quailing before the thought of sleeping in Helen’s bed.
Or was it the thought of Thayne but a wall away that had me quaking like a blancmange?
As if she read my thoughts, Bess ventured, “I thought you liked him, my lady.”
I sat up, squared my shoulders, and offered Bess a wan smile. “I fear events have moved a trifle faster than I can like.” I stood. “But my bodice is quite soaked in Violet’s tears and change I must. Show me where I may find my clothing.” Grimly, I followed Bess down a long corridor to the suite of rooms set aside for the Lord and Lady of Falconfell.
The room was lovely, if too pale and delicate for my taste. I would have it redone as soon as possible. A sitting room, as well as my dressing room, separated my bedchamber from Thayne’s. My brain welcomed the distance, however inconsequential. To my surprise, my heart did not.
Crossing a sitting room and dressing room is not that big a chore!
It is if only lust or duty drive his feet.
I snapped the lid on my conflicting inner voices, changed my gown, and descended the staircase to begin my duties as lady of the manor.
I was nearly an hour into a tour of the parts of Falconfell I had not yet seen, including Maud’s stillroom, when a footman tracked me down, to announce, “His lordship wishes to see you in his bookroom, my lady.”
I thanked Mrs. Maxwell for her services and followed the footman’s lead back to more familiar parts of the house. Thayne, still wearing his wedding finery, rose from behind his desk, motioning me to the chair I had begun to think of as my very own. He sat back down and stared at me, as if he had forgotten why he summoned me. I raised my eyebrows, finally offering into the continuing silence, “In spite of the histrionics, it was a lovely ceremony. And I am happy to say Violet seems to have survived the drama well and is willing to accept me into the family.”
Thayne seemed not to have heard me, his grim face deteriorating into a gargoyle scowl. “It was unforgivable for Justine to ruin your wedding in such a fashion. But by tomorrow she will be gone, and we may all breathe easier.”
My wedding. I could only suppose weddings meant less to the male of the species, particularly the second time around.
“You are satisfied with your bedchamber?” He might have been making a polite inquiry to a perfect stranger.
“It is a lovely apartment, though I would brighten the colors a bit.”
“You may redecorate as you like. The whole house could use brightening. And I assure you the Hammersley coffers can stand the nonsense. Wool and wise investments have been kind to us.”
For the first time that day a true smile, if teasing, lit my face. “Are you telling me I have married a wealthy man?”
“Why else do you think Helen married a man who lives in the middle of nowhere?” My smile faded, my gaze dropped to my lap. “Devil it, Serena, I shouldn’t have said that, even though it’s true. There’s been enough of a pall cast on the day. Serena?”
I lifted my head and firmed my chin, clinging to dignity against his cool façade which seemed to scorn any hint of affection. “You have married me because I am strong and capable. Because I do not display undue sensibilities, particularly over matters that cannot be helped. What is, is. I accept the bad with the good and I shall do my best to fulfill my duties as mistress of Falconfell.”
Thayne offered a curt nod to indicate he’d heard what I considered a magnanimous statement, but offered no other reply. He sat with his hands clasped, his head down. We were back to the awkwardness of my first moments in this room. I waited, realizing we had finally come to the heart of why he had summoned me.
“Serena . . .” The knuckles on his clenched fists whitened. “I am aware of the difficulties of such a hasty marriage. We were mere acquaintances in London and you’ve scarce been here a fortnight.” He paused, dropping his gaze to the desktop as if expecting it to offer up the words he was seeking. After a soft sigh, he once again looked me in the eye. “I know you to be a woman of good sense and possessed of the courage to cope with unusual situations, but I feel I have no right to expect you to fulfill all your marital duties just yet.” His voice trailed into silence.
Oh. The words made perfect sense. Hammersley was, after all, a true gentleman. But I felt the blow. He had acquired a competent household manager, and that was enough, thank you very much. What man would want plain, often brittle, Serena Farnborough when he had known Helen Montague in her prime? Perhaps the equally lovely Justine as well. And who knew what mistress Thayne had tucked away in a cottage nearby . . .
But before he could see the rush of tears that threatened to overflow my eyes, I jumped up and dashed out of the room. Later, I would suffer for this telltale sign of my injured feelings. I would castigate myself for not departing the room with dignity and grace. But I had been unprepared for his words or for my reaction to them. I had not thought to care so much.
More the fool, I.
Dinner was also awkward, with the men carrying most of the conversation. The dowager joined in from time to time, but my lips seemed to be frozen shut. Nor did recognizing how foolish I was acting improve my attitude. Maud was just as bad. Although her face was lit with some sort of strange excitement, the only sound she made was an occasional inexplicable cackle. It was only when the dowager whispered, “Serena, my dear,” and turned her eyes toward the drawing room that I realized I was now the person who should signal the ladies’ withdrawal.
I stumbled to my feet with such haste, only quick thinking by one of the footmen saved my chair from falling over. My cheeks were still hot with embarrassment ten minutes later when I pleaded exhaustion and excused myself from the drawing room before the men joined us. The dowager and Maud exchanged such a knowing l
ook that I was still blushing as I climbed the stairs, tears pricking behind my eyes. It was, after all, my wedding night.
By the time I was ready to climb into bed, pain had overwhelmed all vestiges of my earlier embarrassment. I was, I decided, plain and dull, a Cinderella with no hope of either fairy godmother or Prince Charming. So be it. I must learn to live with the pain of rejection. There would be compensations. Violet. Other children, God willing, for Falconfell needed an heir. I heaved a sigh that was closer to a groan.
I had one arm out of my robe when a tap sounded on my dressing room door. I froze, the only thing moving my heart as it charged upward into my throat.
He’d changed his mind.
Wishful thinking, you silly goose!
Another tap. A bit louder.
With great care I stuffed my arm back in the sleeve of my robe, re-tied the belt. Before I had taken more than one step, the door opened. “I beg your pardon,” Thayne said with the cool disinterest that seemed to be a necessary attribute for a British gentleman. “I assumed you did not answer the door because you were asleep.”
And yet he had come in anyway.
I thought I caught a hint of warmth as his glance flicked over me. More likely it was but a trick of the dim candlelight or a figment of my suddenly girlish imagination, which had suddenly exploded into life as I pictured Thayne stark naked beneath his ornately embroidered banyan of midnight blue silk.
“I have come to apologize,” he said, his sky blue eyes piercing and intent. “I had thought to play the gentleman and instead I seem to have hurt your feelings. For that I am truly sorry. I promise you, Serena, I want you as my wife for more than your usefulness to Falconfell.”
“How can you know, my lord? As you so clearly pointed out, we are mere acquaintances.”
“Devil it, woman! Don’t throw my words back at me.”
Fists clenched at my sides, I bowed my head, took a deep breath. The more the fool, you, to think he’d changed his mind, even for one moment.
Not the wedding night girls dream of.
But then I recalled the horror stories I had heard and knew I should be grateful for Thayne’s sensitivity, even if it were rooted in indifference. We could afford to wait until tragedy and drama faded. We had a lifetime ahead of us.
Conquering my sometimes unreliable temper, I offered: “I beg your pardon, my lord. I am grateful for your consideration.” I managed a curtsy in my night robe, which must have looked quite ridiculous. My tenure as mistress of Falconfell was not off to a brilliant start.
“Thayne,” he corrected, looking stern.
I responded with a stiff nod. “Good night . . . Thayne.”
He hesitated, as if he would add something more but thought better of it. “Good night, Serena.” And he was gone. I grabbed the back of a chair to keep myself upright. Oh. Good. God. What had just happened? Thayne had come to me, and I wasn’t woman enough to keep him by my side.
No, no! A slow beginning to our marriage was sensible. Most proper under the circumstances.
Like an automaton, I removed my robe, climbed into bed, blew out my candle. After some hard contemplation in the pitch black of a room in a house at the end of the world, I was able to talk myself around. Today I had become a wife, a mother, a titled lady, and mistress of a great house. I had no right to complain of a reluctant lover. Thayne, in fact, might never feel more than affection or gratitude towards me, but he would come to my bed, if only to get an heir. And when he did . . .
I felt myself blush. All over.
It was some time before I was fully armored behind my customary sangfroid, but finally I slept. Not waking until a sharp, “Serena, you’re needed!” brought me wide awake at shortly after first light.
Chapter Fifteen
Thayne’s tone left me in no doubt that something was horribly wrong. I scrambled into my robe and slippers and followed him out the door and down the long corridor toward the bedchambers on the far side of the house. An eerie silence enveloped the early morning; not even the customary rustle of the housemaids rekindling the fires in the bedchambers could be heard. If the birds were indulging in their dawn chorus, no cheery tweets penetrated Falconfell’s thick walls.
I was breathless by the time Thayne came to a halt at a closed door. He turned to me, his face as grave as I had ever seen it. “I am sorry,” he ground out. “I should not have brought you here. But when I saw—when I realized . . . Indeed, I need your sensible counsel.” He clasped my hand, his gaze not quite meeting mine. “Serena, I must warn you what you are about to see is shocking.”
“Justine?” I asked, knowing full well this was her bedchamber. Thayne nodded and opened the door.
Expecting some dramatic scene, I was puzzled when I heard only the sound of soft hiccupping sobs. “You may go now, Mary,” Thayne said to the young housemaid sobbing by the fire. “But cease your tears before making up the other rooms. I do not want news of this all over the house before I make the announcement myself. Is that clear?”
“Ye-es, my lord,” the girl managed before scrubbing her face with her apron and scurrying out.
I did not want to look behind the curtains that were pulled tight around Justine’s bed. No matter what I thought of her, the death of anyone was unpleasant, particularly the untimely death of someone younger than I. And death it had to be. There was no other explanation for the events of the past few minutes. And, besides, the room reeked of it. Not just the ugly smell of bodily fluids but a miasma of—was it horror?—seemed to envelop us.
Thayne pulled the curtain aside, and I forced myself to move forward, look down. Justine’s pale face seemed to rise out of the gloom, all hysteria, anger, vibrancy erased. She was simply . . . gone. Though far less beautiful in death than in life. I suspected she had not died easy.
Or naturally.
Thayne pulled down the covers all the way to her toes. Not a drop of blood could be seen. If she had killed herself, she used poison, possibly an overdose of laudanum. If someone else killed her, the method must have been the same. I bent over to take a closer look. Not easy for me. When someone died, my job was over; I was not expected to examine the corpse. Hiding my wince from Thayne, I forced myself to look. Justine’s lips were not blue, nor her fingernails. Something different, then, from whatever killed Helen.
If Helen’s murder was not a figment of my imagination. Which was seeming less likely by the moment.
“Mary came running to me as soon as she saw the body,” Thayne said. “For some reason the curtains on this side were open . . .” He rubbed his forehead as his voice trailed away. “I came back with her directly and discovered she had the right of it. Justine had been dead long enough for the body to grow cold.”
“She was so distraught,” I murmured, “do you think she—”
“No.” At my startled expression, Thayne explained: “Justine’s plans might have been thwarted, but for all the times she threw herself at me, I never caught a hint of love. Merely a lack of something better to do. At most, a desire for my title and my money. In that, no different than Helen.”
“That was not passion when she screamed to high heaven and pounded the drawing room carpet?” I asked, incredulous.
“A temper tantrum, perhaps, or pure stage play,” Thayne offered. “A plea for sympathy.”
Sympathy? Who on earth would sympathize with such a creature? She had ruined my wedding! Nonetheless, whatever Justine’s motive, could she have worked herself into such an abysmal state that . . .?
Suicide might not be acceptable to the church, but it was far more acceptable to my way of thinking than the possibility she had been murdered. “What now?” I asked.
Thayne pulled the covers back up, this time extending the sheet over Justine’s face. “I will ask Mrs. Maxwell to prepare the body,” he said as he drew the curtains, closing Helen inside. “We will tell the others what has happened, and we will once again send for the vicar. We should bury her near Helen,” he added musingly, “inseparable in deat
h as they were in life.”
“No inquest?”
Thayne offered me his most inscrutable look. “The advantage of being the local magistrate is that I am sole judge of how to handle each case. I shall explain to the vicar how shocked we were to discover that Miss Raibourne suffered from a heart defect similar to her cousin’s.”
“But that’s not—” I broke off, biting my lip. “Naturally,” I replied stiffly, “you wish to have Justine buried in sanctified ground.”
“Naturally.”
I fisted my hands over my mouth, staring at the blue silk brocade bedcurtains as if I could see straight through. “But what if it was murder?”
“Justine was Helen’s first cousin,” Thayne returned calmly. “They could easily share a family predilection for a weak heart, with an attack brought on by the hysterics everyone witnessed yesterday.”
“But—”
“And if she took her own life, it is better we not investigate the matter too closely.”
Scowling, I desisted. Clearly, further protest would be useless. If Thayne had any suspicions about either death, he was not willing to talk about them. Something I found far from reassuring.
“Ringing the bell will only fetch a maid, so one of us must go for Mrs. Maxwell. Do you wish to stay with the body, or shall I?”
Relief flooded me at the chance for escape. “I’ll get her,” I said, and left Justine’s bedchamber with unseemly haste.
When I was properly dressed, I went to the dining room in search of a bit of toast and tea, only to find the sideboard bare. I descended to the kitchen where I discovered a veritable sea of servants in need of reassurance. That accomplished, I hoped, I paid a visit to the nursery for a whispered conversation with Nanny Roberts and a cheerful good-morning hug for Violet.
I found the dowager sitting near the fire in the drawing room, calmly pulling silk thread through her embroidery hoop as if nothing extraordinary had happened. Avery, however, was pacing the length of the colorful Aubusson carpet, while rain pelted hard against the tall windows on two sides of the corner room.
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