Behind the Shattered Glass

by Tasha Alexander

  Pru snorted. “Maybe you can think so. I can’t. Being a kitchen maid doesn’t allow me the lazy lifestyle of you housemaids.”

  “If you don’t like your position, you’re welcome to work hard enough to get moved to something better,” Cook said, poking her head into the hall. “Just don’t look to me for a hand up. Not after I’ve seen the way you tried to get by without polishing the copper pots all the way last week.”

  “Mr. Davis would have something different to say,” Pru said.

  “Mr. Davis would throw you out of the house if he got wind of your rotten attitude,” Alice said. “That nurse wasn’t careful with the babies, and she deserved just what she got.”

  “That’s enough from the lot of you,” Cook said. “Come now, useless girl. We’ve six sauces to prepare for the family’s dinner tonight.”

  “How many sauces will we be having tonight?” Pru asked.

  No one replied to her. Lily silently recited a Hail Mary to herself, hoping it would bring her patience, and before long Pru flounced out of the room. The mood lightened considerably with her absence.

  “That girl is the worst sort of—” Alice clamped her mouth shut when she saw Mr. Davis, the butler, coming through the door.

  “Good day, everyone,” he said. “I know we have discussed the events of last night already, but I wanted to say again how pleased I am with the way you have all managed to uphold your high standards of work in the midst of such unpleasant circumstances.”

  “It’s our pleasure, sir.” Alice grinned.

  “Mr. Hargreaves spoke to me this morning and asked me to pass his and Lady Emily’s compliments along. He also wanted me to assure you that the servants’ ball will take place as scheduled at the end of the month. He hopes there will be no further disruptions in the household.”

  “That’s excellent news,” Alice said, and several of the footmen murmured approval.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Mr. Davis said. “I believe you all have work to do? And, Lily, if I could have a quick word?”

  “Of course, sir,” she said and followed him into his room, a small parlor next to the housekeeper’s.

  “Meg tells me Lady Emily’s dressing room was not prepared on time last night.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Lily looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “It is my fault entirely. I fell behind in my duties and know full well that for that there is no excuse.”

  “The unfortunate incident made things difficult for all of us last night. I understand that. Please, however, do not let it happen again.”

  “No, sir, it won’t.”

  “We will not mention this to Mrs. Elliott.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lily sighed relief. The housekeeper would not have been so generous with her.

  “Meg made a point of coming to me about it rather than her. You might thank her for that.” There was no lady’s maid more gracious than Meg. It was no wonder Lady Emily said over and over that she could not do without her.

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded with great enthusiasm to the butler and scurried upstairs, eager to get back to work, vowing never again to make so careless a mistake and wondering what she might do by way of thanking Meg for her much-appreciated kindness.

  3

  Colin and I sat next to each other on the monstrous fifteenth-century canopied bed that dominated Lord Montagu’s room at Montagu Manor, its heavy red curtains held back with golden tasseled ties. We read through three times the letters that had arrived for Archibald Scolfield before we went downstairs to confront Matilda, who had abandoned the great hall for a smaller sitting room. Like much of the rest of the house, it was wood paneled, but here two-thirds of the walls were covered with embroidered hangings. Delicate flowers dotted wide horizontal backgrounds of alternating burgundy and cream. The windows were leaded glass in a diamond pattern, with bits of colored glass used to accent the design. Matilda was sitting at a writing table, papers strewn around her. She tensed when she saw us, knitting her eyebrows together and turning down the corners of her mouth.

  “Were you aware of Archibald’s plans to renovate Montagu Manor?” I asked. “It seems odd no one has mentioned them to us.”

  “Archie? Renovate?” Matilda gave a strained laugh. “How ridiculous. The house is practically new.”

  “Was he planning to live here?” I asked. She had never mentioned any such scheme. Quite the contrary.

  “No, that wasn’t the agreement.” She frowned. “I already told you that.”

  “Yes, you did, but this seems to suggest he planned something else altogether.” Colin passed her an envelope and waited while Matilda read its contents.

  “He promised me,” she said and pursed her lips. “He would never go back on his word.”

  I studied her face. Nothing in her expression suggested surprise, only anger. “This letter is from an architect who discusses very specific plans for revamping the house,” I said, “and mentions dates by which your cousin was planning to move in. Clearly, he did go back on his word. Are we to believe he did so without informing you?”

  “He may have decided to renovate without discussing the project with me. He would be perfectly entitled to.” Matilda sat up very straight and squared her shoulders. “And he may well have planned to keep a set of apartments here for his own use. I see nothing wrong with that.”

  “The second letter suggests something rather different,” Colin said. “It is from Lord Montagu’s fiancée.”

  “Fiancée?” Matilda blinked. “I know nothing about this.”

  “Which is strange considering the young lady in question believes she was to be married next Christmas and would be living in this house,” I said. Matilda grabbed the letter from Colin.

  “I swear to you I knew nothing about this,” she said.

  “I hope that is true,” I said. “If it is not, it gives you a powerful motive to want your cousin dead.”

  “I wouldn’t kill him over a house, not even this one.” Her eyes flashed and she scowled, anger consuming her for just a moment before she regained her composure. “Archie and I were always close.”

  “So close that he never mentioned his engagement to you?” Colin asked.

  She lowered her eyes. “We’d had something of a falling-out a few months ago.”

  “Explain.” Colin folded his arms across his chest.

  “This young lady, as you call her, is nothing of the sort. All she wants is this house and to be marchioness. She’s a vile American, you understand. Constance Sturdevant, she’s called, and I understand she had her heart set on royalty. Unfortunately for her, the princes of Europe had the good taste to ignore her untoward advances. Unfortunately for us, my cousin was not so strong. Archie and I argued more times than I can count about his growing affection for her.”

  Many Englishwomen, my mother leading their charge, violently opposed what she described as “the unseemly exportation of heiresses from the States.” The wealthy—extremely wealthy—daughters of American businessmen had stormed London society, making an especially favorable impression on unmarried gentlemen. American heiresses had not been trained, as their English counterparts had, to avoid eye contact, to refrain from stating strong opinions, or to refuse to discuss controversial subjects in public. The American contingent was, for the most part, better educated and studied subjects far broader than those my governess had dared address. While I had more than made up for the inadequacies of the system on my own, learning ancient Greek so that I could read Homer and becoming something of an expert on ancient art, many English girls had no opportunity to follow my lead. Their parents would never have stood for it. As a result, the Americans were like beautiful, exotic birds, irresistible to gentlemen tired of vapid society girls capable of little more than riding with the hounds and making insipid comments about the weather. It did not surprise me in the least that Archibald would have fallen for someone more invigorating.

  “I am not acquainted with Miss Sturdevant,” I said. “Do you know he
r well?”

  “Not precisely,” Matilda said.

  “I do remember hearing about her in London last year. Is she the girl who caused a scene by swimming in the Serpentine on an usually warm July afternoon?”

  “The very one. You can see why I object.”

  Quite the contrary, Miss Sturdevant’s action had endeared her to me. While I always liked to find ladies of spirit, I thought it best to refrain from saying so to Matilda. “What was the result of these arguments with your cousin?” I asked.

  “He told me he would wait a year before proposing to her. If he still loved her and had found no significant flaws in her character, I was to accept the match.”

  “Would you have?” I asked.

  “It would never have lasted a whole year,” she said.

  “It appears he disregarded your advice and proposed,” Colin said.

  “And was going to punish me by forcing me out of my home?” Matilda asked, her eyes flashing. “If that’s the case, he deserved to die. Do let me know when you’ve identified the murderer. I should like to send him a thank-you note.” She flounced out of the room without another word.

  “Can we prove she knew about this?” I asked my husband.

  “We can try,” he said. “I’ll wire the Yard and arrange to search Montagu’s house in London.”

  “Matilda’s house, you mean.”

  “Right.” He started to pace. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. Matilda is a suspect, but she’s too obvious, and something isn’t quite right.”

  “Perhaps it is time to delve further into Lord Montagu’s life,” I said. “You interviewed the guests at last night’s party, and we could claim that each of them had opportunity. Motive, I would argue, has a greater role in murder. Who benefited from his death? Other than Matilda, that is.”

  *

  The rail journey to London passed quickly, and a man from Scotland Yard met us at St. Pancras, ready to drive us to Archibald’s house in Mayfair. As Lord Montagu did not care for country life and kept only one house, the full staff were in residence, and not a single one of them had a negative word to say about their master. Archibald’s inheritance had made little difference in his lifestyle beyond him having moved from his parents’ town house to the one technically owned by his cousin. His allowance was the same, and his patterns appeared to be the same. He belonged to the Turf Club, lunched weekly with friends he’d met at Oxford, and rowed on the river every day. His possessions suggested he wasn’t a man of high intellect. There were very few books in his library and none at all in any other room of the house. Nothing, however, impugned his character.

  “He would bore me, I’m afraid,” I said, reading through the correspondence in his study. There were piles of letters, bills (all paid in a timely fashion), and scores of invitations to shooting parties. He seemed a perfectly ordinary gentleman, dull, even.

  “Anything from his fiancée?” Colin asked.

  “Nothing yet.” I made my way through the rest of the stack and turned my attention to his desk drawers.

  “The man doesn’t own a chess set.” Colin had finished going through a cabinet filled with files. “But his records are meticulous. It appears he saved every receipt from every item he purchased.”

  “Can you trust a man who doesn’t play chess?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Can you trust a man who receives passionate letters from a lady of possibly dubious reputation?”

  “This sounds promising.” He came to me and sat on the edge of the desk.

  “A whole box of letters,” I said. “All from a Miss Cora Fitzgerald who lives in Melton Carbury.”

  “Melton Carbury?”

  “That’s right. Not five miles from Montagu Manor.”

  “Are we acquainted with her?”

  “Not so far as I can remember, but then we don’t spend much time in Melton Carbury, do we? I can’t think when I was last there. I’m sure Matilda goes for church, but that’s simply because her grandfather wanted a Roman Catholic chapel in the new house.”

  “Despite the fact that he was Church of England.”

  “He was interested in authenticity, my dear, so the family worships in the village, and the chapel is a lovely museum. It need not concern us at the moment. Listen to this.” I read from the letter in my hand. “I cannot bear another day away from you, my dearest love. They all seem to be in similar vein. The explicit nature of some of them is what makes me suspect the authoress is a woman of dubious reputation.”

  “When are they dated?”

  “Going back two and a half years, the most recent sent last week.”

  “And not a single word from his fiancée?” Colin asked.

  “Not any he considered worth saving, so far as I can tell.”

  “Two more rooms here and we’ll head back north,” Colin said. “I, for one, am greatly looking forward to making Miss Fitzgerald’s acquaintance.”

  “Not quite yet, I think.” I held up Archibald’s diary. “His Oxford chums were scheduled to lunch together at the Turf Club today. You could check there and see if any of them is still around. I’d be more than happy to assist, but I wouldn’t be allowed over the threshold.”

  “I do remember a time, long ago, when you barged into the Reform Club,” he said.

  “Looking for you.” I smiled. “These circumstances are altogether different.”

  He took my face in his hands and gave me a most delicious kiss. “Were you then still operating under the delusion that I’d murdered your first husband?”

  “I’d rather not think about it, if you don’t mind.” It was a tad embarrassing now to remember that I had once suspected Colin of having a hand in Philip’s death. Such were the follies of youth.

  “You were full of fire that day. I can recall it with absolute clarity. Your eyes ablaze—”

  “You should not have been noticing such things then.”

  “I was already in love with you.”

  “And I had no idea how lucky I was.” I squeezed his hand. Our eyes met and I wished there was no work to be done.

  London was empty at this time of year, only a handful of gentlemen around, most of them staying at their clubs while in town to tend to matters of business. Society had retreated to the country in time for the Glorious Twelfth, the day grouse season opened, and would not return until the social season started back up the following spring. Archibald having chosen to keep his primary residence in town was decidedly unusual, especially after he had inherited his grandfather’s title. No doubt his influence among his friends was what enabled him to draw them in every week at such an unusual time of year. It suggested he was a good friend, a man respected by his peers.

  I had only rarely been in London in the autumn, but found it quite pleasant in its semiabandoned state. There were no dowagers to contend with, no rules to follow, and, best of all, no calls to make, so I took the opportunity to browse the British Museum while waiting for my husband to finish at the Turf Club. I started in the gallery that housed my favorite object in the museum: a Greek vase depicting the judgment of Paris. My first husband had donated it from his collection years ago, and it was one of the pieces that had catalyzed my interest in classics and my study of Greek. From there, I made my way past the Parthenon friezes and paused in front of the Rosetta Stone, wishing I could touch the carved ancient letters that had revealed the secrets of Egyptian hieroglyphs. I had been studying the Greek language for more than five years now and agreed passionately with the words of the Duke of Buckingham: Read Homer once, and you can read no more;/ For all books else appear so mean, so poor,/ Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read,/ And Homer will be all the books you need. Much as I adored Greek, perhaps it was time to take on Egyptian as well. Expanding one’s knowledge is always a noble pursuit. Wanting to further consider taking on another culture, I spent the remainder of the time I had in the Egyptian galleries, feeling as if a whole new part of the world were opening to me. Too soon, it wa
s time to meet Colin back at St. Pancras for our train to Anglemore.

  “I can categorically guarantee Archibald Scolfield never played chess,” Colin said as we took our seats in a private compartment. “That is not to say he was a man of bad character. His friends assure me he was dependable and loyal, a true gentleman.”

  “And?” I could tell by his tone there was more.

  “And he had requested that none of them breathe a word of his engagement.”

  “He had informed them he was engaged?”

  “They toasted him not two weeks ago.”

  “Did they know why he required secrecy?” I asked.

  “He felt strongly that the news would distress another lady, and he wanted to spare her feelings for as long as possible.”

  “Matilda?”

  “Cora Fitzgerald.”

  “Miss Fitzgerald.” I had not suspected this. “What, precisely, do they know about her?”

  “They were vague at best, wanting to protect their friend’s reputation,” Colin said. “It was, however, quite clear they thought Scolfield was bound to have a difficult time giving her up.”

  “After his marriage to the American?”

  “Yes. They feared Miss Fitzgerald’s upbringing would prevent her from being, shall we say, Continental about the situation. One of them made mention of the ‘bastions of middle-class propriety.’”

  “Did they know Miss Fitzgerald expected to marry him?”

  “They made no mention of any understanding, but I would not have expected them to,” he said.

  “I think it is best I stop thinking about Archibald Scolfield for a few moments. My opinion of him is becoming entirely unladylike.”

  “Perhaps I ought to come up with a way to distract you. I can’t bear the thought of you becoming unladylike.”

  “That is hard to believe,” I said. “I have been convinced since the first days of our marriage that you preferred me unladylike. Heaven forbid that ever changes.”

  Downstairs

  iii

  Lily was singing again, this time a rousing chorus of “Jerusalem,” and so taken with the music that she was not paying close attention when she turned the corner from Lady Emily’s room, where she had just finished tidying and changing the linens. She was moving so quickly she came close to slamming into Lord Flyte, who was heading down the corridor, his nose buried in a book. “Sir! I’m so sorry,” she said, blushing and bending down to retrieve the dirty bedclothes she had dropped.