I suppose I should have silenced Josie in full spate, but I was not above a bit of gossip myself, particularly something touching on Jason . . .
I did, however, wonder about Mr. Talmadge. He had seemed all amiability the last time he was here. Did he have second thoughts about a reconciliation between the families? Or had he been playing a role, attempting to aid his sister’s blatant attempt to bring Lunsford Hall back into the family?
“And Charlie heard Sir Basil tell Lady Kempton they must be wed immediately,” Josie continued, determined to share all the news from below stairs. “That she should fly the house and leave the master to his fate. Really, missus, it’s a caution what folk will say in front of a footman—just as if he didn’t exist!”
So . . . it appeared our callers were only giving lip service to their apologies. Except for Miss Talmadge, who seemed determined to tie her future to Jason and must, therefore, support his claim to being a blameless pillar of the community.
And how did Jason feel about all this? I wondered as Josie finished putting my neatly folded laundry away before bobbing a curtsey, accompanied by a mischievous smile, and scooting out of the room. Surely he could not help but be flattered by the sudden interest of a woman who was both strikingly handsome and boasted a dynamic personality. Yet from what Josie said, Jason had not seemed eager to join the Talmadges in the drawing room.
As I pondered this problem over the next few days, it became apparent that Jason was watching me. Though I seldom caught him at it, I could feel his eyes boring into me—at breakfast, while driving the boys in practice circles around the park (for it would have been churlish, I reasoned, to ignore the miserable contraption after all the effort put into its refurbishment).
I also felt his gaze fixed on me at dinner. And while I sat in the drawing room or played the piano. Even while walking along the sandy strip at the edge of the salt marsh, when I knew perfectly well I was sheltered from the house by the wild rose hedge. Which unjustified imaginings made me realize how easy it must have been for the villagers, with nothing more than a hint here, a whisper there, to create a monster out of a kind and honorable gentleman.
Miranda, you fool. You truly are as bad as the villagers. Conjuring warm feelings out of nothing more than . . .
Ha! You can scarcely say ‘kind words’!
My inner voice subsided, no doubt as confused as I over what was becoming a most peculiar relationship with my employer.
He had been watching me. I knew it!
Late in the afternoon on the eighth day after the boating accident, I was summoned to Jason’s study. My heart thumped against my chest as I descended the stairs. I curtsied then sat in the chair in front of his desk, folded my hands in my lap, and gazed squarely at him. Miranda Chastain, ever defiant. Just as my Papa always accused. Truthfully, I feared I was as bad as Nicholas.
Jason wasted no time with niceties. “We brought up the boat this morning,” he told me. “It is as I suspected. A hole beneath the stern seat, neatly drilled.”
“But why?”
Jason, clearly having asked himself the same question, had a ready answer. “I cannot think anyone would be villainous enough to target a child, so I can only presume I was the intended victim. Certainly, as we have seen, enough animosity abounds to make that a reasonable suggestion.”
My head jerked up, I could feel my eyes flash my disgust. “Fear is one thing, murder quite another! I can’t believe anyone would go so far—”
“My dear girl, there’s a hole in the boat. Would you rather assume I’d drilled it myself so I might become a viscount?”
“What?” Stunned, I goggled at him.
“I am Nicholas’s heir. On his death, his title and lands would come to me. And that’s not all,” he added when I remained speechless. “Even before rumors that will undoubtedly name me a villain intent on ridding myself of my nephew, the village has exploded into viciousness far worse than what went before. Clover Rooke—the hysterical young creature you will recall from church—claims she has seen me turn into a ravening black beast with jagged teeth and claws. And just yesterday, I’m told, she declared she once saw me on Diablo, flying up into the sky, carrying the body of your predecessor, Miss Dawes.” Jason raised a crooked brow and waited for my reaction.
Insanity. No one would believe . . . And then I recalled all the witches burned on far less “evidence” than this.
But this was the nineteenth century. An enlightened era.
I shivered, fighting to make sense of it all. To no avail. The situation was out of hand. “You say the vicar comes to Fenley once a month?” I said at last. “Is he a sensible man? Will he help?”
Jason leaned back in his chair and eyed me with skepticism tinged with respect. “An interesting idea, one I would not have considered, having given up the church long since. What do you suggest?”
“I think he must be asked to speak for you, perhaps the archdeacon and bishop as well.”
“The bishop!” Amusement curled his lips. “You must believe we are in dire straits indeed if we must call upon the bishop.”
“Are we not?” We. He had coupled us into this predicament together, and I did not deny it.
“Somehow I had thought you more a woman of reason, Miranda, one who did not place much faith in either vicars or bishops.”
“I may not be a blind believer, Mr. Lunsford—”
“Jason.”
I nodded, struggling to conceal my surge of pleasure, and continued: “I do not consider bishops infallible . . . Jason, but I do know their power, and it is considerable. In this situation I believe it would be wise to use it.”
He was silent for some moments, his gaze fixed on the garden outside the window. “Very well,” he said at last. “I shall begin by writing to the vicar. Hopefully, he will be amenable to helping us solve this problem.”
Us. He was still including me, making me feel . . . not as shut out, not as hurt as I’d been for the past week. “You have, of course, notified the local magistrate?” I ventured.
“I fear I am the local magistrate, thus tasked with investigating my own problem.” His lips curled in what I now recognized as at least a semblance of a smile. “Be strong, Miranda. With your help, we will dig ourselves out of this mire.” He stood, and I knew I was dismissed.
I floated up the stairs, determined to dress for dinner in one of my finest gowns. Jason had called me Miranda. No longer angry with me, he had actually accepted my suggestion. Soon, very soon, this nasty coil would be straightened out, and life would return to normal.
And then . . .
I actually hummed as I sorted through my gowns, looking for something that would be particularly attractive to a gentleman’s eyes. But when I was dressed and examining my image in the mirror, I could only frown. I understood Miss Talmadge’s motive very well—she wanted to bring Lunsford Hall back into the Talmadge family. But my motive for wishing to attract Jason’s attention? That was less clear. How could I, who had loved my husband so dearly I gave up family and friends to go into virtual exile with him . . . how could I possibly—ever—desire to please another man?
Was Jason just another challenge, a mountain to be climbed?
Were my feelings inspired by pity?
Or was my heart merely playing one of love’s inexplicable tricks? Creating a situation from which no good could come?
As the following Sunday approached, we seemed to be enveloped in an atmosphere of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I pondered staying home, keeping Chas with me, but could not help but wonder if this would spur even more vicious rumors. “I have heard from Mr. Fairclough, the vicar,” Jason told me one evening in the drawing room after dinner. “Not the strongest man, I fear. He wishes to consult his archdeacon before what he terms ‘disturbing the bishop.” Looking grave, Jason added, “Hopefully, someone will listen and bring this nonsense to a close.”
Amen to that!
“I beg your pardon, sir, ma’am,” Stebbins said, entering the r
oom more precipitately than usual. “Peg reports that the young gentlemen are feeling unwell. Both of them. Nurse Robbins believes it must be something they ate. Shall I send for the doctor?”
“At once!”
A chill swept through me. Not that boys, ever ready to sample anything and everything, did not suffer stomach aches with regularity, but combined with all that had been going on lately . . .
“Smile,” Jason hissed in my ear as he swept me across the room. To the ladies he said, “I wish to show Mrs. Tyrell a book I recently purchased. We will return directly.”
We burst into the nursery, where Robbins had both boys laid down on the bed in Nicholas’s room. They were pale and sweating, and looked exceedingly ill.
“What did you eat?” Jason barked, with what I considered little thought that they were but two sick children.
“Just supper,” Nicholas managed before he clutched his stomach, gasping with pain.
“It hurts,” Chas whispered, his small face contorted in agony.
Jason turned to the nursery maid, who was hovering in the doorway. “Peg, tell Mrs. Allard to send up the ipecacuanha. And be quick about it!”
“Should we not wait for the doctor?” Robbins asked.
Jason shot her look that said all too clearly that waiting could be fatal.
I gulped and squeezed Chas’s hand. “Whatever you ate, my sweet, the ipecac will bring it up. A few nasty moments, then you’ll both feel better.” If only I could be as confident as I sounded.
The boys were clearly suffering, yet there was nothing we could do while we waited except hold their hands, murmuring reassurances. Behind the words I said aloud, I prayed. Every moment of a childhood filled with the tenets of the Church of England rushed back to sustain me, as it had during the dreadful days after Avery’s death. As much as I resented my father’s unbending attitude, no one could deny he was, in his own way, a good man.
As was Jason Lunsford. I could see he felt as I did, wishing we could suffer each gasp, moan, and groan in place of our boys. And when Peg burst into the room at last, with Mrs. Allard not far behind, it was Jason who steeled himself to pour the medicine down their throats.
I will not record the details of the next few minutes, as they are something best erased from all our minds.
After the doctor had examined the boys, receiving an admittedly jumbled account from all too many mouths, he pronounced the boys well enough to be tucked up in bed, as long as a sharp watch was kept on them throughout the night. And he was not above praising Jason for his quick action. Speaking sotto voce, he offered the opinion that from the symptoms described, the outcome might not have been so fortunate otherwise.
After the boys fell into a slumber of exhaustion, we left Peg to watch over them and joined the group Jason had ordered to assemble in the schoolroom. We were a large party—Dr. Bowden, Jason and I, Nurse Robbins, Mrs. Allard, Cook, and Amos. With Cressida still sobbing and clinging to her mother for support. So many, in fact, that with Cressida coaxed to sit in Nurse Robbins’s rocking chair and Lady Hadley ensconced in my governess chair, the rest of the females had to settle for child-size chairs while the men perched on top of the low tables and desks.
Truthfully, I doubted anything could be determined until we talked with the boys, and all had agreed they not be close-questioned until morning. Nonetheless, Cook and Nurse Robbins were asked to recite every item the boys had eaten since breakfast that morning.
“Nothing,” Cook wailed. “Not a single jot of anything that you yourselves, or staff, did not eat, sir,” she declared. “I swear it.”
“What about biscuits?” I asked. “Fairy cakes, other sweets not served at table?”
“Not a thing but what was drunk or eaten by someone below stairs,” Cook asserted.
“And no one else is sick?” Jason asked.
“No one,” Cook and Mrs. Allard chorused in unison.
Dr. Bowden frowned. “You say the symptoms were more severe than an ordinary stomach ache, Mrs. Tyrell?”
“Far worse, Doctor.”
“As if they’d been poisoned,” Jason added. He suddenly looked to Amos. “Where did they go today? Did they sample any berries, pick green crops, wild mushrooms? Were they given a treat by someone?”
“No, sir,” Amos asserted. “If they ate something they shouldn’t, they never got it while I was with them.” Yet another sob from Cressida punctuated his words.
“Thank you, all,” Jason said. “Clearly, we are indulging in an exercise in futility, with nothing to be learned until we can speak to the boys in the morning. Cressida, Hesper, Miranda, I have no words to tell you how sorry I am. This should not have happened, and you have my most sincere apologies for failing to protect the boys as I should.”
“They are exactly that, Mr. Lunsford,” I said. “Boys. You are scarcely to blame. They cannot be wrapped in cotton wool and confined to their rooms. Not if we wish them to grow into proper men.”
“We do, however,” Lady Hadley declared with some asperity, “wish them to live to grow into proper men.”
Somehow I felt as guilty as Jason, as if I had set them a lesson of searching out poisonous plants, of which all too many lurked among England’s forest, marshes, and hedgerows. Perhaps I needed to procure a compendium of dangerous plants and produce and add such information to our curriculum.
Except information on poisons in the hands of boys of nine and eight . . .
Stifling a groan, I bid goodnight to Mrs. Allard, Cook, Amos, and the doctor, then hovered in the corridor as Cressida and Lady Hadley took one last peek at Nicholas. Nurse Robbins, to give her credit, offered to sit up with the boys, but Jason sent her to bed. And tried to do the same with me.
“Nonsense,” I declared before thanking Peg for her services and promptly taking possession of the sole chair in the room. “What?” I muttered as the silence deepened and I pried my eyes away from Chas long enough to discover Jason looking thoroughly amused.
“Well played, Miranda. Do you mind if I bring in a chair from the schoolroom?”
“Not at all.” I turned my back to him, lifting the bedside candle to peer more closely at each boy to see if a more healthy color was returning to their cheeks. And to assure myself they were still breathing.
I never spent a longer night.
A strangely intimate one, though neither of us said another word. In the morning I woke to find my head pillowed on the bed, a shawl around my shoulders. Jason was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
Nurse Robbins bustled into the room, and after a close inspection of both boys, assured me they were well able to go on without me. I allowed her to shoo me downstairs, where I collapsed on my bed, fully clothed. But sleep was elusive. Too many questions, too many doubts. Prime among them, how long would the boys sleep, and what tale would they tell when they awoke?
The second time I heard Josie open my door, I waved a feeble hand to invite her in. By the time I had managed two cups of tea and half a toast, I almost felt myself again. Particularly when Josie assuaged my guilt by assuring me the boys were still sleeping peacefully. After splashing water on my face, changing my garments from the skin out, and fashioning my hair into severely plain knot, I climbed back up to the nursery to find both boys not only asleep but looking positively cherubic, even Nicholas. Jason was back at their side, appearing as freshly scrubbed and dressed as I, though far less haggard. I could only suppose war had inured him to crises such as this. With a grand gesture he relinquished the chair next to the bed and took the one in which he had spent most of the night.
We waited. Though from the heat on the back of my neck, I’d swear he spent more time gazing at me than at the boys.
Undoubtedly my imagination running wild again.
Boys are remarkably resilient creatures. After sleeping until past ten o’clock, they woke ravenously hungry and loudly indignant that the doctor had declared they could have nothing more substantial than porridge. Although Jason granted them an extra spoonf
ul of sugar each, they were still grumbling and looking for more when Peg arrived to whisk their bowls back to the kitchen.
“And now,” Jason said, his penetrating gaze pinning the boys to the mounded pillows behind them, “we wish to know what you ate yesterday that brought on this disaster.” A guilty glance, yellow-green eyes to blue, before each boy ducked his head, as if greatly interested in the quilted pattern of the wrinkled coverlet.
“Nicholas, look at me!”
“Sir!” Two bent necks straightened, like puppets on a string. I wanted to snap at Jason, tell him to stop. But we had to know. The situation demanded it.
“It’s plain you know what made you ill. So let’s have it. At once!”
“We-ell,” Nicholas said, clearly hedging, “we can’t truly be certain—”
“What,” Jason demanded in his most commanding military tone, “did you put in your mouths that was not prepared in our kitchen?”
“Well, you see, sir,” Chas ventured, “there was this box. A treasure box. Ow!” Nicholas had elbowed him sharply in the ribs.
“And where did you find this treasure box?” Jason asked, ignoring his nephew’s scowl.
“On the beach, sir, at the edge of the marsh.” My poor Chas looked terrified and my heart cried for him, but death had come close last night. We had to know the truth.
Granting Chas a momentary reprieve, Jason turned to Nicholas. “Did you both find the box or only Chas?”
“We both did, sir,” Nicholas muttered through lips that barely moved.
“And where was Amos?”
“Gathering a dead horseshoe crab he thought my mother might like for the schoolroom,” Chas offered, once again ducking his head before he could be skewered by the scathing look Nicholas shot at him.
“And what did you do with box?” Jason asked with a calm I could only wonder at, for I could feel his anger seething just below the surface.
Chas, unable to lie, cast a fleeting glance toward the far side of the room.
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 13
