That beautiful letter . . .
I hugged my pillow and brooded, rousing only when Josie brought me a tray of bread, cheese, and cold meats for luncheon. I hid in my bedchamber all afternoon. There were no reports of mayhem in the stableyard nor screams from the park, but I could not be certain until Chas came rushing in, flushed from the outdoors, to tell me what a cracking good time they’d had. I hugged him tight and suppressed my tears.
“Mr. Lunsford talked to us,” Chas told me. “Before we rode out.” My mother’s heart quivered, wondering just how much he’d told the boys.
“He said there is a bad person doing evil things. Someone trying to make mischief. That we have to be careful, not go off by ourselves, and that we are not to believe any bad things we hear about people in this house. It is all lies. And Nicholas and I must not fight,” he added on a self-righteous note.
Kneeling in front of him, I took Chas by both shoulders. “And you are going to listen him, are you not?”
Yes, Mama,” he replied earnestly before adding with a thoughtful frown, “Some people’s hearts are twisted, are they not, as bad as Mr. Lunsford’s face?” I had opened my mouth to repeat the lesson I had delivered in the schoolroom when Chas added, “Except Mr. Lunsford is only twisted on the outside, and the bad person is twisted on the inside.”
Out of the mouths of babes . . .
I hugged him tight and escorted him back to the nursery before returning to dress for dinner, a meal I did not look forward to as I had no trouble imagining what tales Alyssa Talmadge had been telling the ladies of Lunsford Hall.
And then I remembered it was also my opportunity to see Jason, and no matter how much I might abhor his new attitude, a frisson of anticipation ran through me. Clearly, I was lost. Though why I should be so irrevocably drawn to him, I had no idea.
To say dinner was awkward would be an extreme understatement.
The worst part, I admitted later as I brooded in my room, was that there was no way I could refute the charge of having been a runaway bride. And my relationship with Jason had indeed passed beyond the strict formality of employer and governess on our very first meeting. To say nothing of the fact that he had indeed spent the night in my bedchamber, a serious crime even though I was unconscious for most of that time. In short, though I was innocent of the epithets being bandied about, I was not innocent of the deeds that inspired the vicious gossip. There was no way I could sit on my high horse and announce to the world, “Those things never happened.”
Dear God, surely I have encountered enough troubles. Can You not make this go away?
Papa would scoff at my childish naivety. But the weight of my own problems on top of the dire events threatening Jason and the boys plunged me into gloom. I felt like I was swimming, fully clothed and shod, through murky waters with sharks circling and the tentacle of an octopus wrapped around one leg, ready to pull me under.
I went to bed at last, after assuring myself tomorrow had to be better.
I was wrong.
Chapter Twenty-three
Although Lunsford Hall was of sturdy construction, its walls designed to last for hundreds of years, Cressida’s voice penetrated them with ease. Perhaps the stairwell acted as a funnel, I thought, as I caught Jason’s rumble as well, and occasionally the more modulated tones of Lady Hadley. It was early afternoon, the boys playing games with Amos on the rear lawn where I could keep an eye on them, and I was back in my favorite chair, a pile of mending by my side.
Since recent events had played havoc with my proper manners, I laid aside the reticule and its hanging bit of trim and stood in the doorway, my ears on the prick. I could distinguish no words, of course, and I should not have lingered. I paid for my bad manners by nearly being discovered when a sudden cessation of sound was followed by the swish of silk as someone rushed up the carpeted stairs. Fortunately I made it back to my chair before Cressida burst into my room.
“I will not have a whore and a witch as governess to my child!” she screeched. “Viper! Corruption flies off you like a cloud of evil. No doubt your son’s a seven-month babe. And to think Mama and I have dined with you for weeks.” Her rage turned to a dramatic display of anxiety as she added, “Poor, foolish Jason, is bewitched and will not listen. So it is up to me to tell you to pack your things this instant before the village rises up and casts you—”
Her spate of words was cut off as Jason grabbed her from behind, spinning her around into the arms of her mother. “That’s enough!” he barked. “Hesper, take her to her room and make certain she stays there until she sees some semblance of reason.” Jason and I gazed at each other in silence as Cressida’s hiccuped protests and her mother’s reassurances grew fainter, finally fading to nothing as they descended to the floor below.
“Mir—Mrs. Tyrell, once again, my apologies. I fear there can be little doubt about the source of Nicholas’s volatility. And the Devil alone knows what’s to be done about it .” Jason ran a hand through his warm brown hair, while favoring me with the classic exasperated look of a male confounded by the female mind. “I beg your pardon,” he added hastily. “An unfortunate choice of words.”
I laughed. Albeit, a trifle wanly. Nerves. Who would not be beset by an attack of nerves under the circumstances? But when I opened my mouth to say something sensible, the only words that came out were just short of a wail. “I don’t want to go!”
Jason stepped forward, as if to take me in his arms then hesitated, hands fisted at his sides. I whirled away, rushed to the open window, gripping the sill hard with both hands. There was absolutely nothing I could say to take back that outburst. Any continuation of the conversation must come from Jason. The seconds dragged by, with only the shrill squawks of seagulls penetrating the silence in the room.
When I finally turned around, scolding words on the tip of my tongue because Jason had not rushed to reassure me all would be well, he was gone. Jason Lunsford, master of Lunsford Hall, former major in His Majesty’s Cavalry, was gone. Without a single word of reassurance, support, or hint of friendship.
The following day was one of those dreary times when the sun did not so much as peek through low-hanging gray clouds, and a steady mizzle kept everyone indoors. Surrounded by bristling tension no one could overlook, even the servants walked softly, almost furtively, as if expecting disaster any moment. The day ended in yet another dinner where scarcely a word was spoken. Jason, grim and forbidding, Cressida, sulking, any attempt by Lady Hadley at the social niceties, rebuffed. As for myself . . .? My one venture into conversation was totally ignored. If Jason had heard from Mr. Guthrie, he was not about to discuss it at table. After that, I used my mouth only for chewing.
A thunderstorm swept through, clearing the air—outside, if not inside—and the next afternoon was a perfectly glorious day, the sun so bright we could almost hear the crops growing. The boys and I packed up our sketch books and charcoal and set off for the northern edge of the park. We had already attempted to capture the mystique of the salt marsh, the rose hedge, the gardens, and the water side of Lunsford Hall. Today we would make an effort to portray the house’s front façade, a not-too-challenging prospect since the Hall was little more than a four-story square of brick, marked by perfectly balanced windows on each floor. But then none of us were gifted in art. If past experience was any indication, I would manage a fair reproduction, though without a jot of artistic flare. Chas’s drawing would look like a cross between a box and a haphazard collection of sticks; i.e., the work of an eight-year-old boy. Nicholas’s drawing would lack perspective but come closest to something that actually looked like a proper sketch.
Far from fool enough to chafe at Jason’s orders, I welcomed Amos to our sketching afternoon. I suspected it was going to be some time before the boys and I dared venture out alone. A frisson of dread rippled through me when I caught sight of one of the stableboys trailing us at a distance, a shotgun cradled in his arms. But only because he was a reminder of just how dire the situation had become. L
ike Amos, I welcomed his presence. Come now, you villain, and see what you get!
We set up our easels and had been hard at work for perhaps half an hour—during which I had spent almost as much time rubbing out as I had drawing!—when the sound of a horse’s hooves interrupted us. “Who’s that?” Chas whispered.
At last! Excitement charged through me. “That is Mr. Guthrie, the Bow Street Runner. He is helping Mr. Lunsford find the people who have been doing bad things.”
“The demon?” Chas asked, wide-eyed.
I gulped, groping for a response. “Mr. Pilkington is mistaken, Chas. There is no demon, just a bad person who is causing trouble in the neighborhood.”
“Like the hole in the boat?” Nicholas said. “And the wheel coming off?”
Drat! I had so hoped he hadn’t realized . . . The boys were far too young for such a burden. Had he overheard talk or figured it out for himself?
Or was it Cressida? Oh yes, trust Cressida to say exactly what she should not!
I was saved from a reply by Mr. Guthrie pulling up his horse beside us. “Mrs. Tyrell, Gentlemen, good afternoon. An excellent day for making pictures.” He peered at our work. “Congratulations, Mrs. Tyrell, I do believe all three efforts are recognizable as Lunsford Hall.” Mr. Guthrie’s gray eyes twinkled down at us, and I was grateful for his kindness. A smile and a bit of humor were much needed at this point. Surely he was a man without ulterior motives.
“Not my doing, Mr. Guthrie,” I returned. “I am not gifted enough to make an adequate instructor.”
“But you have come out to sketch on this beautiful day, and that is praiseworthy in itself.”
Good heavens. One did not expect a Runner to have a gilded tongue.
“And now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best be off.” He sketched a salute and trotted on toward the house. Ruthlessly, I repressed an urge to follow him. No matter how stand-offish Jason had become, I would find out what Guthrie had come to tell him.
My surge of ill-usage was short-lived. Not five minutes later, the summons came. I was to leave the boys with their two guards and come to the bookroom at once. I was so eager to hear what Guthrie had discovered, I had to force myself to a sedate pace. It was long past time for this mystery to be unraveled.
But, alas, all we got was a deeper mystery. With an overlay of tragedy. It seems that some months ago, a young woman’s body had been found by a fisherman from a village eight miles down the coast. Though inquiries had been made at the time, no one was known to be missing in Fenley-on-the-Marsh, so the matter was dismissed without further thought. However, Mr. Guthrie added, the doctor in the fishing village had saved a swatch of the dead girl’s gown in case anyone ever inquired after her.
“If only he could have made a sketch,” I offered.
The Runner glanced at Jason, suddenly oddly uneasy. “It seems,” Jason said carefully, “that by the time she was found, the body was not recognizable.”
“Oh.” Embarrassed by my naivety, I ducked my head and kept my eyes fixed on the hands clasped tight in my lap.
“I told Lunsford this was not a conversation for a woman,” Guthrie muttered, in what appeared to be an apology aimed at me.
“No, no,” I protested, my head jerking up as I looked him straight in the eye. “I want to know—indeed, I must know. For it seems any of us could be next. And I have a son to protect, as well as Nicholas.”
“You are quick to assume the girl was murdered.”
“Was she not?”
Mr. Guthrie shook his head. “The doctor believes he saw bruising around her neck, but the body was–ah . . . the state of the body made it difficult to determine. But since she was supposed to be in a private coach taking her to a new position near Nottingham, I think we may assume she did not intend to end up in the Wash.”
“Shall I send for Mrs. Allard now?” Jason asked, obviously stepping in to deter any further speculation about murder.
“And anyone else who might recognize the gown,” Guthrie replied.
For the first time I took a good look at the cloth, a roughly twelve-inch square, spread out on Jason’s desk. I frowned. Though faded by sun and salt water, it had once been a fine sprigged muslin with lace about the hem, not at all what one would expect a governess to wear while journeying to a new position. Step by inexorable step, mystery piled on mystery. I was thoroughly sick of it.
Mrs. Allard and Josie arrived together, turned pale together as Jason asked them if they recalled Miss Eileen Dawes ever wearing a gown that matched the swatch on his desk. Josie, her blue eyes huge, could only nod. Mrs. Allard whispered, “Aye, she had a gown like that. Wore it to church most Sundays.” Face crumpling, she swallowed hard then managed, “Has something happened to her, sir?”
“Truthfully, we don’t know and can probably never be certain. But Mr. Guthrie tells us that about a week after Miss Dawes left us, a fisherman found the body of a young woman floating in the Wash.”
“Ah, God bless,” Mrs. Allard murmured. Josie burst into tears.
“One more question,” Guthrie said. “Did Miss Dawes have an admirer?”
Mrs. Allard frowned. “An admirer? I will have you know this is a respectable household, sir.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Allard, but when a young woman runs off in the middle of the night, it seems more likely she is running to a lover than to a new position.”
“She did,” Josie said around a hiccuping sob. “A body can tell, don’t you know? She had that look.”
Inwardly, I cringed. What did Josie see when she looked at me?
“Do you know who?” Guthrie asked.
“No, sir. She never said. But I know she sneaked out sometimes at night—caught her at it once, I did. And she was fair flying the last few days before she left. I remember being right surprised when she wrote that letter about going to a new position. Didn’t seem right somehow.”
Jason and Mr. Guthrie exchanged a significant look. “Thank you,” Jason said. “You may return to your duties. And please do not speak of this to anyone else. That Miss Dawes had a gown similar to this one is not proof that the dead woman was she.” The two women nodded and scurried from the room.
“Not you, Mrs. Tyrell,” Guthrie said rather sharply as I got up to follow them. I subsided into my chair, once again folding my hands in my lap, the very model of a proper governess. “Has any gentleman been showing interest in you, ma’am?”
The absolute last question I expected. And how was I supposed to answer? I told myself married women of twenty-seven did not blush, even as I felt my cheeks go scarlet. “No,” I lied. Or perhaps it wasn’t a lie, and Jason’s interest had been a figment of my imagination.
“Other than myself,” Jason qualified, evidently considering the investigation more important than sparing the feelings of either of us.
For a moment Thomas Guthrie’s imperturbable façade betrayed surprise as he looked from one of us to the other. Hoping to deflect his thoughts, I hastened to elaborate on my response. “Other than Sir Basil occasionally attempting to put his hands where they don’t belong—as I am certain is his habit with any female under fifty—only Mr. Talmadge has attempted to set up a flirt. Fortunately, since I seldom see him anywhere but at church, it is impossible for him to go beyond the line.”
“Miranda,” Jason sputtered, “you never told me this!”
“It is of no account, Mr. Lunsford. I have been fending off admirers since I was fifteen.”
“I’ll have their liver and lights,” Jason muttered. “Demmed mawworms.”
I made the mistake of glancing at Mr. Guthrie and caught a glint of amusement in his gray eyes before he focused his professional investigator look on me and asked, “Did you ever catch a hint of menace from either of them?”
Menace. Not really. And yet . . .
“No, but now that you ask, I have to confess I cannot like either man. There is something about them that raises my hackles. It seems possible each could be capable of violence if he did not ge
t his way. Mr. Talmadge more so than Sir Basil. That may be totally unfair,” I added hastily. “As I said, I do not like them.”
“What about the young man I saw with you and the boys?” Guthrie asked.
“Amos? No, indeed.” I came close to laughing out loud. “Amos is as pure as the driven snow. I cannot imagine a more loyal employee or a man more comfortable with his place in the world.”
“Anyone else?”
“The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker?” I mocked. “The curate who thinks I’m a Jezebel? I think not, Mr. Guthrie. I assure you my admirers are few and far between.”
And disaffected, like Jason.
“I am truly sorry to add Miss Dawes’s death to your worries,” Jason told me, “but I am certain I do not have to tell you to be even more careful. Evil continues to stalk us, and it seems we are all targets. Do not be disturbed if I add more armed guards. I shall send to Boston immediately. Fortunately, there is no dearth of former soldiers looking for work.”
I made my farewells to both men and escaped the house almost on a run. Relief swept through me when I saw the boys still at their easels with Amos peering over their shoulders. The man with the shotgun still stood with his back to a tree, slowly scanning the park in all directions.
I waved, calling the boys inside. Unfortunately, I was no longer certain any place was safe.
Chapter Twenty-four
As much as I disliked the growing familiarity between the Talmadges and the Lunsfords—primarily because I did not care to see Miss Alyssa Talmadge fawn over Jason—I welcomed the evening they came to dine with us. For I was determined to ignore my personal annoyance and more closely examine Mr. Miles Talmadge’s reactions to the residents of Lunsford Hall, and to the house itself. Would I, for example, catch him gazing nostalgically, even enviously, at a room, a Murano chandelier, the carved molding above a mantel? Were we dining on Talmadge plates? Eating with Talmadge silver? I realized I had no idea how many of the furnishings had come with the house and wondered if Jason himself knew. It was possible this was a story his grandfather’s younger brother had kept to himself.
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