After a heartfelt sigh, I entered the nursery. Violet grabbed my hand, sweeping me into the rocking chair, determined to show off her ability to name all the letters in her Alphabet book. After that, we played a game, read a story, shared nursery tea. Yes, I was lingering in the bright warmth of the nursery, postponing the inevitable, perhaps hoping Mrs. Maxwell would be gone before I descended to the main part of the house. Absurd, of course. Not even her worst enemy would expect her pack up a lifetime of possessions in an hour. Nor would she have anywhere to go.
Glumly, I descended the stairs, hoping all was over, that Thayne, influenced by Mrs. Maxwell’s long years of service, had not given her a second chance.
He had not, I discovered. The deed was done. Alice Maxwell would leave within two days of Justine’s funeral. If Bess’s reaction was any indication, rejoicing triumphed over the household’s shock at Mrs. Maxwell’s dismissal. “The new broom sweeps clean,” she chortled. “I promise you, my lady, the whole staff is wreathed in smiles.”
I stared. I fisted my hands before my mouth and stared into nothingness. Was it all my doing? Was Mrs. Maxwell being let go only because I had complained of the meals? Because I had wanted a new cook?
What other explanation was there? Inertia had served Falconfell well for far too long. I was the new ingredient that brought the pot to boil. One could only hope the loss of Alice Maxwell would be as fortuitous a change as the advent of Anton Fournier.
I stood at the same window in the drawing room, watched the same pallbearers lay Justine’s coffin in the same farm wagon, before forming a sorrowful cortège down a narrow lane that led to the family graveyard. This time, however, I recognized all the mourners: Thayne, Avery, Ross, Rab Guthrie, and the two most stalwart footmen.
“Come away, Serena,” Isabelle called from her customary chair where her embroidery basket always sat close to hand. “Let it be over. Time to start anew.”
A last lingering look at the cortège, which was winding into the trees and nearly out of sight . . . I drew a deep breath and turned to the dowager. “Do you really think it’s over?” I asked. “Somehow I cannot believe it.”
Peering at her embroidery, Isabelle finished whatever stitch she was working on before giving me a long, hard look. “Life is frequently easier if we accept the bad things that happen and move on. It is not as if we could bring either of them back, wipe out Mrs. Maxwell’s thievery, or restore Maud’s mind to what it once was.”
Put like that, it was impossible to argue. And yet . . .
“I suppose you wish us to Hades,” the dowager added in a shocking change of subject. “Avery and I are playing gooseberry on your honeymoon.”
“Good heavens, no,” I burbled before a rush of wariness shut my mouth and I turned away to hide the scarlet blush I could feel staining my cheeks. I struggled with a rush of emotions that threatened the composure I had cultivated so assiduously through the years. “You must be aware,” I murmured, “that our hasty marriage is one of convenience. Time enough to become . . . acquainted when not so much is happening.”
“Do not leave it too long,” Isabelle returned tartly. “Hammersley was a fine man—I speak of Thayne’s father—but neither is inclined to do without. You have just seen the product of a widower between marriages.” She nodded toward the front window.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Rab Guthrie,” she pronounced. “He is Thayne’s half-brother. And then,” she added while I was still attempting to look suitably surprised, “there’s Alice Maxwell, her father a by-blow of Thayne’s grandfather. Not to mention the rumor Ross is a cuckoo in the Hammersley nest. More than cousin,” she added on a whisper. Having thrown out enough eye-opening tidbits to thoroughly distract me from the tragedy of Justine’s funeral, the Dowager Lady Hammersley returned to her embroidery.
I was still trying to form a question that wouldn’t topple the ornate seventeenth century candlesticks off the mantel when she added softly, “Do you wish us gone, my dear?”
“No.” I was surprised to discover I meant it. For all her sharp tongue, Isabelle Hammersley was a calm, intelligent anchor in what had turned into stormy seas sweeping through Falconfell. And I liked Avery. He, too, seemed far more sensible than most young gentlemen his age. “You are welcome here, Isabelle. As is Avery. I have need of another female to talk to.”
She continued to ply her embroidery, a satin-stitched leaf from what I could see. “You probably think I hold my son too close. What young man goes visiting with his mama? But he was only two when I married Hammersley, Falconfell is his home. And . . .” She hesitated. “It seems so much safer than London. And he has friends here.”
“I understand,” I said. And I did. Or at least I thought so. Here, Avery had Rab Guthrie, as well as freedom from prying eyes.
The Dowager Lady Hammersley examined my face with care, as if to make sure I truly did understand and was not harboring unspoken judgmental thoughts. “Thank you,” she said before initiating another abrupt conversational switch. “This was once a happy house, and it will be again, I know it. You will bring light back to Falconfell, Serena, though I fear after all that has happened, it won’t be easy.”
“But what if Justine was murdered?” I burst out. “What if a killer walks among us?”
“Then you must ask yourself how closely you wish to look into the matter.”
“My lady?”
Isabelle offered me a look somewhere between exasperation and pity. “Ask yourself, Serena, who benefitted most from Helen’s and Justine’s deaths . . . and then ask yourself if you really wish to pursue that line of inquiry. You are mistress of Falconfell now, responsible for all those who live here. My advice? Best let sleeping dogs lie, my dear.”
Horror struck me dumb. Not that I hadn’t realized Thayne had reason to rid himself of both women, but the dowager actually thought he’d done it. Or was the most likely suspect. Which meant she, too, suspected murder, not natural causes. Which meant—oh, dear God, I had no idea what it meant. More anguish, more horror, more deaths . . .
Possibly mine.
I murmured something about checking on Violet, and left the room at a pace far too fast for a proper baroness.
Chapter Twenty
Two days later, I stood on the raised front portico while Thayne and Fraser escorted Alice Maxwell to the Hammersley coach and helped her aboard. A few brief words were exchanged, the door shut, the steps put up, and the coach rattled off down the drive and over the bridge, taking the scourge of Falconfell with it.
If only that put an end to the pall that enveloped us all . . .
But Mrs. Maxwell had not taken the menace with her. I could feel it still around me. Waiting . . .
Nonsense! If she was mad enough to think she could get away with massive theft, she was mad enough to get rid of rivals to her power. We should now be safe.
Then why kill Justine instead of me? Particularly when she was leaving the next morning?
So probably not Mrs. Maxwell. We were well rid of her, without a doubt, but not because she was a murderess.
Today was a rare one, with no more than a few fluffy white clouds skimming the mountain tops against a sky as blue as a Wiltshire summer. Anton, after a considerable flurry in the dove cote, already had Nettie and the kitchen maids simpering, while the upstairs maids invented excuses to visit the kitchen. Something I found more amusing than frown-worthy.
Now that at least one of my Nemeses was gone, perhaps I could be spared long enough for a bit more exploration of the grounds. I had my shawl with me to ward off the early morning chill so, after assuring Fraser I wouldn’t walk far, I set off down the narrow road the funeral cortège had taken. The tangy scent of a world washed clean filled my head. Dew-laden grass, trees, and wildflowers glistened in the sun; even rocky outcroppings gleamed as the sun kissed the moisture still clinging to their tops. The birds sounded such a joyous chorus that I felt guilty because I was unable to join in. No matter the perfection of the day, the gloo
m of Falconfell hovered around me, refusing to go away.
Nonetheless, I entered the woods, head high, curiosity urging me on—the family cemetery couldn’t be far. The trees soon parted, and there it was on a grassy hillside high above the river, with a spectacular view of the entire length of the valley. Whoever had chosen this site had done so with care. A fine place for one’s bones to rest for eternity.
Would I too . . .?
I slammed the door on that errant thought. Perhaps fifty years from now . . .
The fresh-turned earth of two new graves, decorated with bouquets of wilted flowers, stood out like beacons, reminding me of the worries, the fears, I carried everywhere I went. I should say “sorrows,” I supposed, but I had not known Helen well, nor so much as glimpsed her for over a decade before she died. As for Justine I could only feel sorrow for her untimely end. No one, not even the truly villainous, deserved such a fate, and Justine had only been a woman attempting to make fate smile on her. Unwisely and too vigorously, perhaps . . .
She wanted Helen gone so she could take her place!
If Justine killed Helen, then who killed Justine, and why? I snapped back at my inner voice which didn’t seem too bright this morning.
Grumbling, my inner voice subsided.
I took a second look at the new graves, and my eyes widened. On top of the wilted flowers on each grave were fresh flowers, laid no later than last night or this morning. Goosebumps pricked my arms beneath my shawl. Was someone else here? Had I interrupted a private mourning? Trying hard not to look as frightened as I suddenly felt, I slowly scanned the area, as if merely enjoying the view. The woods on three sides were dark, impenetrable. On the fourth side, nothing but grass and rocks all the way down to the white-frothed river marking the center of the valley.
Yet someone was watching me, I was certain of it. How fortunate the slope was gradual and not some convenient cliff where I might be pushed to oblivion.
No, no, much too soon. Too obvious, my inner voice advised.
All well and good for you to say, I retorted. Logic does not make me feel one whit safer!
Logic indeed. Just because the death of a second bride of Falconfell so soon after Helen’s demise and the death of a would-be bride would scream “murder” to the world didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Murder was not a logical crime. Murder was the work of a twisted mind, a mind that might be more fixed on getting the job done than on worrying about the consequences.
My goosebumps expanded, the hairs on my arms standing to attention like soldiers on parade. So much for my morning walk. But to return to the house I had to go through the woods. It was that or descend all the way to the river, find my way along the banks past a solid phalanx of trees, some of which leaned out over the water . . .
I said a quick prayer at the graves, added a short plea for myself, and turned back the way I had come. I swear the birds had gone silent, but perhaps I simply couldn’t hear them over the thudding of my heart. In spite of a sun now higher in the sky, the woods seemed darker . . . I grimaced at the slightest rustle. By the time I saw Falconfell looming up before me, my goosebumps had goosebumps. I trudged back up the short flight of front steps and entered the house, my feet slowing to a stop as I realized the atmosphere of the cold, bleak, dimly lit entry hall was nearly as depressing—threatening?—as the shadowed band of trees I’d just traversed.
I turned to Fraser, who was hovering as a good butler should. “Please see that a fire burns here at all times. Is there less gloom in the summer?” I added.
“Only in the early morning, my lady. There’s an hour or so when the sun shines in and it is truly quite lovely.” Clearly embarrassed by expressing such a personal observation, Fraser assumed his stiffest butler pose and intoned, “I’ll see to the fire immediately, my lady.”
I was about to mount the staircase when the sound of raised voices drifted into the hall from . . . somewhere. After a momentary tussle with my insatiable curiosity, I paused on the third tread of the staircase, ears on the prick, even while castigating myself for even thinking of investigating.
Surely it was my duty as mistress of Falconfell to calm stormy waters.
I slipped back down the stairs and followed the sound of the agitated voices straight to the Thayne’s study, where I found the door slightly ajar. Perhaps the strength of the clashing words inside had blown it open. I stood there quite shamelessly, taking in every word.
“She was murdered. You know she was murdered, I know she was murdered. Half the household must know she was murdered, and what have you done about it? Nothing. No coroner, no inquest. Nothing. You’re sweeping it under the rug, just like Helen, who, God knows, was likely murdered as well. And now you’ve sent Alice Maxwell away—”
“And how many times must I tell you we can’t catch a murderer who is on guard? Nor will I tolerate a thief in my house, no matter how many years she’s served here, nor how closely she may be related to the family.”
“You could have reprimanded her, you didn’t need to cast her out!”
Ross and Thayne, the Hammersley near-twins, going at it hammer and tong. Ross’s distress over Justine I could understand, but the estate steward downplaying Mrs. Maxwell’s thievery . . .?
“She is pensioned for life, Ross, a far cry from ‘cast out.’”
“Most generous, I’m sure,” Ross mocked. “Is that what you’ll do with Serena when you have no more use for her? Or is it more convenient for her to be found dead in her bed, like Justine?”
“I say! Stop that!” Avery’s younger, lighter voice rose over a sudden hubbub inside the study. The crash of a chair, the thud of fists on flesh. “Stop it! Have you both gone mad?”
Oh dear God! I threw open the door and charged into the room to find Thayne and Ross grappling with each other, while Avery danced in a semi-circle around their backs, still exhorting them to stop their nonsense.
As the subject of their altercation, I could not avoid a certain satisfaction that my husband had taken umbrage with Ross’s remark, though it might be in defense of his honor rather than mine. I heaved a sigh, before announcing in stentorian tones: “Stop this at once! You are gentleman, not prize-fighters. And I won’t have such nonsense in my house!”
That did it. The two of them stepped apart, turned, and stared at me. “You heard me,” I asserted. “This is now my house, and you will not engage in fisticuffs like a pair of twelve-year-olds.” I fixed my gaze on Ross. “And, yes, I heard what you said and was suitably shocked to discover a man I considered a friend could so callously suggest my imminent demise.”
“I was trying to save you—”
“You were trying to make trouble. And, frankly, I am sorely disappointed in you. Would you have had us continue to suffer abominable meals for decades to come? Oh, but of course, you avoid that by cooking your own.”
“Serena, I—”
Ignoring his protestations, I said, “Ross, Avery, you may leave us.” They both shuffled out like naughty schoolboys, Ross putting a handkerchief to a bloody nose as he passed by.
Thayne straightened his cravat, wiggled his shoulders to adjust his forest green country jacket He smoothed his tousled hair, then bent down, picked up the chair I considered mine, and set it in its place. Eyeing me askance, he invited me to be seated before making his way back behind the solidity of his desk, where he lowered himself into his leather-upholstered chair and waited—face fixed in polite inquiry—for me to continue my tirade.
But the fire had gone out of me. All that was left was sorrow . . . and fear. In the end I said only, “I had not thought Ross enamored of Justine. Nor would I have guessed he was so attached to Mrs. Maxwell.”
“He always had an eye for a pretty woman, but so do all the Hammersley men.” Did he have any idea how that simple statement hurt? “As for Alice Maxwell”—Thayne frowned—“I am surprised. It’s possible the rumors—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I am so very sorry you witnessed our nonsense, Serena. It was nothing personal
, I assure you. Occasionally Ross enjoys baiting me, as close relatives sometimes do.”
“But it does seem odd that you are ignoring a possible murder,” I pointed out, eyeing him closely as I spoke. “Perhaps two.”
“I assure you, I am not.” His blue eyes, more of a stormy shade than usual, caught and held mine. “I wish to conduct an investigation that will not scare our murderer into running.”
“And what if it was Mrs. Maxwell?” I shot back.
“I know where to find her,” Thayne returned steadily. “But I am inclined to believe the villain is still among us.”
I gulped. “A villain who does not seem to like the women in your life.”
Thayne frowned. “Or someone who wishes to make me look a villain.”
A possibility, I had to admit. And, unfortunately, it seemed to be working. “Isabelle and Avery do not seem frightened by the situation,” I offered.
“Avery leave Rab? I think not.” Thayne knuckled his forehead. “I beg your pardon, I did not mean to say that.”
“It’s all right, I suspected as much.”
Thayne leaned back in his chair; silence reigned. “You are a wise woman,” he said at last. “Strong. Exactly what I wanted for Falconfell, but I must tell you I think you should go. For all Ross’s blustering, he hit the nail on the head. It’s possible you are in danger here. I beg you, go visit your sister and give me a chance to find out if a murderer truly stalks our halls.”
He was right. I should go and take Violet with me.
But who would help Thayne track down a killer? At the moment, certainly not Ross. And could I leave poor, frail Maud, who might or might not be the person we were looking for? Could I leave Isabelle and Avery, who weren’t made of the stuff of heroes? What about Nanny, Nettie, Fraser, Anton, the entire staff? They were counting on me to smooth the recent upheavals into a well-functioning household.
Brides of Falconfell Page 14
