Digby closed the doors firmly on the cold autumn. “I trust that you had an enjoyable time, madam,” he said as he removed her shawl.
“Yes, thank you, Digby.”
“Mrs. Berrisford is here, madam.”
She stared, her heart sinking. “My mother? All the way from Breconshire without so much as a note to tell me she was coming? Is something wrong?”
“Well, madam, I would hazard a guess that she is worried about something, but more than that I cannot say.”
“It’s probably her nerves since poor Mrs. Harmon was murdered. Is my sister with her?” The words sounded lame as she tried not to show how disturbed she felt.
“No, madam, Miss Maria did not come.”
She smiled. “No, Maria’s nerves are as steady as a rock. Did you put Mother in the Green Room?”
“Yes, madam. Lucy informs me that she believes her to be sleeping now.”
“Believes?”
“Mrs. Berrisford has locked herself in, madam.”
“Then—then I will not disturb her. Good night, Digby.”
“Good night, madam.”
She crossed the polished tiles of the hall and wearily climbed the curving staircase. She paused by the oil lamp in its silver-gilt holder, looking across the stairwell at Daniel’s prized collection of Stubbs’s paintings. They were surely not valuable enough— Taking a long, cross breath, she continued up the stairs. At the first landing she halted again, looking back down at the paintings which Daniel had collected so painstakingly. Was Chris right? Did she still put Daniel first—even now? Slowly, and with a heavy heart, she went on up toward the second floor, and as she reached her own rooms she heard the clock of St. Blaise’s strike four o’clock.
Chapter 2
Lucy drew the rose brocade chair before the fire and ushered Mally firmly into it. “Sit down there in the warm while I make you a nightcap.”
“If I drink anything more I shall have the head to end all heads in the morning.”
“Just warm milk then.”
Mally nodded, wriggling her feet from the velvet slippers. She stretched her toes toward the fire and stared at the slow, curling flames. Without Lucy’s presence the room was so quiet, and beyond the drawn curtains she could still hear the seagulls. And the dog. But in the warm safety of her room the unreasonable fear could not reach her in the same way, and as she stared at the glow in the heart of the fire, it was of Chris that she thought.
Lucy returned with the glass of milk and stood watching her sadly. Lucy had looked after Mally since childhood, and there was nothing which the old nurse did not know. “How did it go, sweeting?”
“Terribly.”
Lucy’s crisply starched apron crackled as she crouched beside the chair and took Mally’s hand. “There now, don’t fret about it.”
“I can’t help it. Every time it happens. Every single time. It always comes back to Daniel.”
“Sir Christopher should be man enough to understand.”
Mally looked fondly at the nurse’s old face framed by its mobcap and wispy strands of gray hair. “But he doesn’t understand, Lucy, he thinks I’m—dwelling. And perhaps he’s right, for it’s two long years now. Two very long years.”
“I know, and it’s autumn again.”
“That doesn’t help. It’s worse when the fires are lit again, and then when the chrysanthemums are brought in— It’s the chrysanthemums more than anything.” She stared at the fire again. “They were by his bed the day he died.”
“But there will always be autumns, and always chrysanthemums, little one. You must go on, you cannot keep looking back at what you have lost.”
“I know, I am unfair to you all. To you. Even to poor old Digby. And most of all to Chris—he deserves more than me, Lucy.”
Lucy smiled and patted the gloved hand. “But it’s you that he wants, Miss Mall.”
“Lucy, you loved your husband Joseph, didn’t you? How long does it take to forget?”
“Forget? Lord above, you don’t forget! Memories mellow, but they don’t suddenly vanish like will-o’-the-wisp. Even now, eighteen years after he was taken from me, I— Well, you have your autumns, but for me it is the springtime. When the daffodils are there again. Joseph was the head gardener up at Castell Melyn when I first met him. Oh, it was a grand place then, with all the carriages, the fine folk, the lights and the music. You’ve not seen the old place like that, have you? To you it’s always been gloomy and deserted, a place for children to avoid because the ghosts await them. But in the spring the daffodils must still be there, where my Joseph first planted them. I’ve never been back since he died, but in my mind’s eye I can imagine them. Drift after drift of pale gold, and beyond that the castle itself with the sun on its yellow stone. Castell Melyn. Whatever knight in times gone by named it that named it well, for it is truly a yellow castle. An enchanted place for me, a frightening place for you.” Lucy smiled. “I’ve heard tell recently, mind, that someone’s bought it and it’s lived in again. Perhaps it will come into its own again, eh, Miss Mall?”
“I haven’t been near the place since that time Daniel locked me in somewhere there and wouldn’t let me out.”
“Aye, and a good thrashing he got from his father on account of it. That wasn’t long before his parents were taken by the smallpox. His parents. Your uncle. And half the folk of Llanglyn. So Daniel came to live beneath the same roof as you, and that was the beginning of it, wasn’t it?”
Mally nodded. “Maria got so jealous and furious because we wouldn’t play with her. We’d go sneaking off, hoping that she hadn’t seen us. But she usually found us in the end, and spoiled all our games by insisting on having everything her own way. Poor Maria.” Mally finished the milk. “Lucy—why is Mother here?”
“I don’t know.” Lucy got to her feet.
“Didn’t she say anything to you?”
“No.”
Mally glanced at the curtained windows. “She must have said something.”
“Only when I asked her if they’d caught the murderer. She looked fit to burst into tears and said that they hadn’t. Then she went and locked herself in the Green Room.”
“I know, Digby told me.”
“She’s very upset about it,” said Lucy heavily, “as I am myself. And as you are too, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Don’t you miss anything?”
“Not where my lamb is concerned. I’ve seen you jump when a door banged, and glance over your shoulder where the shadows are darker. And it’s only since the murder.”
“I know, and I’m disgusted with myself for giving in like this. Oh, I wish Mother had let us know she was coming, for she’s managed to unsettle me all over again now.”
“Well, you know your mam, Miss Mall, she’s a creature of impulse if ever I knew one.” Lucy smiled reassuringly. “My, your hair stayed in a treat tonight. I’ll warrant Sir Christopher was the proudest man there.”
“It went very well until the usual subject cropped up on the way home. It was the naming of the house this time.”
“Well, sweeting, you were a little tactless there, weren’t you?”
“I know. Lucy, do you like him?”
“Sir Christopher? But of course I do, I like him very much.” Lucy unpinned the intricate curls and dropped the pins into a porcelain dish. “But perhaps he’s not for you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it seems to my old eyes that he wants a blushing bride who behaves like a maid in the midst of her first love. If that is what he wants, then he shouldn’t be marrying the widow of his best friend, now should he?”
Mally looked at the emerald ring on her finger, turning it so that the flames caught it in flashes of deep green. “I love him.”
“I know you do, but do you love h
im enough and in the right way?”
Mally removed the ring and pulled off her white evening gloves. The ring felt cold when at last she replaced it. “I want to marry him, Lucy.”
“Then carry on as you now do, biting back each unwary word, concealing the truth of how you feel deep inside, and enduring his behavior when he senses you are not being honest with him.”
“You make it sound like a life sentence, not marriage.”
Lucy glanced down at her and said nothing, picking up the hairbrush and brushing the dark hair until it crackled.
When at last Mally was ready to climb into the warmed bed with its lavender-scented sheets, the dawn had turned from gray to silver outside. She lay back, watching Lucy draw the heavy velvet curtains around the bed.
“I wonder if someone has bought Castell Melyn? Would you go there again if they had? In the springtime?”
Lucy smiled fondly. “Perhaps. Who can say? Now then, you get some sleep. Good night, Miss Mall.”
“Good night.”
The last curtain shut out the light completely, and Mally lay in the darkness. Outside the seagulls had gone and the dog had ceased its noise, and the only sound was the slow rattle and clatter of wheels upon the cobbles as a tradesman’s cart passed the house.
Chapter 3
It was the sun managing to pierce its way through a crack in the curtains which woke her at last the next morning. The clock of St. Blaise’s was just striking and she lay there counting the chimes. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Eleven o’clock!
“Lucy?”
“I’m here, just warming your wrap. It’s a grand morning, cold, but sunny and fine.”
“And Mother will no doubt have been up for hours!”
“No. She has only just unlocked herself from her cell and gone downstairs. She told me that she had journeyed here in two days from Llanglyn and that she put her exceedingly long sleep down to that.”
Mally smiled. “Not to mention the hidden bottle of something or other she carries around in that huge reticule! Purely medicinal, of course.”
“Miss Mall, perhaps I should warn you.”
Mally paused on the edge of the bed. “What?”
“Well, I don’t think Mrs. Berrisford has come here just because of what happened to Mrs. Harmon. I think she’s very worried about something else.”
“Why do you think that?”
“My room is above the Green Room, and I couldn’t help— Well, I couldn’t help hearing her last night. She was crying, Miss Mall, and I don’t think worrying about Mrs. Harmon’s death would cause that. Do you?”
“Maybe not.” Mally slipped her arms into the warmed wrap. “I’ll go down directly then. Just brush my hair and tie it back. That’s it.”
“What clothes should I set out for you afterwards?”
“The blue and white dimity, I think. Yes, Sir Christopher is taking me for a drive in Hyde Park this afternoon and the blue and white will look well. Could you have them prepare a hot bath for me in about an hour’s time? Good and hot, scented with something flowery and at the very least up to my chin! That will set me up for the rest of the day, and I fancy that after my breakfast with Mother I shall need setting up again.”
***
The fresh bowls of chrysanthemums on the polished table were bright rust and gold in the sunlight streaming through the dining-room window, and their wistful, clean scent filled the air as Mally entered the room. She glanced at them immediately and then at the plump little figure in apple green silk by the windows.
Mrs. Berrisford’s hands twisted and twisted the lace handkerchief she held and she stared out at the mass of Michaelmas daisies lining the sun-drenched wall of the garden. Some late roses bobbed here and there, but the Michaelmas daisies were in tumbling confusion everywhere this autumn, a blaze of purple and pink against the mellow brick.
Digby drew back Mally’s chair and she met his glance, nodding at him. “Leave us, I think, Digby, and thank you.”
He bowed and Mrs. Berrisford turned at last as the doors closed behind him. “Ah, Marigold.”
Mally smiled, but mentally gritted her teeth, for her name was the one thing in the whole world she hated. “How good it is to see you, Mother.” She crossed the remaining space and hugged her mother’s dumpy figure.
“I must ask you, Marigold, for I cannot contain myself a moment longer. Have you seen Maria?”
“Maria? No.”
“Oh, dear, I hoped and hoped— I wrote those letters, praying that by some phrase you would hint you had seen her.” Her eyes filled with tears and she shook from head to toe.
So that was behind the letters— “Come and sit down, Mother,” said Mally gently, leading the quivering woman toward the fire and sitting her firmly in the large armchair. “Now then, what’s all this about?”
“W-well, I haven’t seen her for three weeks or more.” Mrs. Berrisford pushed her henna-rinsed wig more firmly beneath her lace mobcap. “I don’t know why she should do this to me, especially at a time like this when we don’t know if we’re to be murdered in our beds!”
“What happened before she left?”
“Nothing.” But Mally noticed how her mother avoided her eyes.
“Mother, has she gone to the Clevelys?”
“I don’t know. Oh, Marigold, do be sensible, how can I go there and ask that old dragon if my daughter happens to have gone to stay there? She’d have the engagement to her precious Thomas broken off quicker than a wink! She doesn’t approve of Maria anyway, the world and his wife knows that, and an inquiry like that would only convince her further that Maria is unsuitable. With a capital U.”
“Well, is the admirable Thomas in residence at the moment?”
“No, he’s at sea—in more ways than one!”
Mally smiled in spite of her mother’s worried face. “But why did you think she’d come here?”
Again there was that refusal to meet her daughter’s eyes. “Because—she took the royal mail at Hereford. She bought a ticket for London. I thought—hoped—that she had come to you. We, well, you see, we had had some terrible disagreements.”
“About Thomas Clevely?”
“Good heavens, no! What could you find to talk about in him! He’ll make a wealthy husband. End of topic. No, no, it was about—someone else.”
“Another man?”
Mrs. Berrisford shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Yes, but it’s not quite that simple. There was another man, a totally disreputable American by the name of Andrew York. A ruffian and a scoundrel. Just like his master.”
Mally blinked. “Who is or was this Andrew York? I mean, where does he live?”
“He lived at Castell Melyn. He came with that man.”
“What man? Oh, Mother, you are leaving me floundering around in all these dark utterances and I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about. Now then, Maria was seeing this Andrew York from Castell Melyn, is that right?”
“Yes. Foolish chit. She was jeopardizing a perfectly good match and I told her so. In fact I forbade her to see Mr. York again. Oh, I was most forcible, I may tell you.” Mrs. Berrisford nodded firmly.
“And?”
“And she continued to see him. Behind my back. It came to a head on the night poor dear Agatha was murdered. I could not find Maria anywhere. I was frantic because it was such a stormy night. The old oak up at the crossroads was brought down. Oh, such a gale. Then Maria came home. It was so late and I was nearly fainting with the worry of it all. She was so pale, like death itself, and she wouldn’t tell me anything, just shut herself in her room. The next morning, of course, the news was everywhere about the murder. I thought—well, because she was so strange, I thought perhaps she had seen something in the town. I know that she had gone to Llanglyn to meet the American. I asked her, but she jus
t burst into tears. Pattie and I could do nothing with her. Then Dr. Towers came to the house. He’d been up at Castell Melyn attending that Jamaican everyone knows now did the murder but who’s being protected by the doctor’s insistence that he was too ill to have left his bed!”
“Mother, you’re losing me again. What happened when Dr. Towers came to the house?”
“He asked to see Maria and was closeted with her in the library for some time. Well, whatever it was he had to say, it brought a change in her. She seemed lighter when he had gone, but she was still strange and withdrawn and would say nothing to me. Even Pattie tried—now you know Pattie’s kept house for us for years and years and Maria always confided in her, but no, not this time.” Mrs. Berrisford drew a long, shaking breath. “Next morning she had gone. She packed a small handcase of belongings and just left the house.”
“To go to this Andrew York?”
“If she did, then her journey was in vain, for Mr. York was dead. The day Maria left, his body was found up near the castle. A riding mishap, it seems. Dr. Towers told me he was found with his foot still caught in the stirrup. He’d been dragged some way, poor man. Anyway, he’s buried at St. Crispin’s now, God rest his soul. And there’s still no sign of Maria. If you ask me, that Jamaican murdered Agatha and Mr. York!”
“Mother!”
“Well, Marigold, he was in Llanglyn that night. He was seen. And nothing that old fool Towers says can alter that.”
“Who saw him?”
“Jasper Turney and his brother. And Brew Darril.”
“Three of the biggest rogues I’ve ever clapped eyes on! Shame on you for putting their word above the doctor’s.”
“Hereford born and bred, the three of them—so what can you expect but that they’re rogues.” Mrs. Berrisford sniffed. “Anyway, Marigold, it isn’t only their word. Pattie saw the Jamaican as well, in the lane by our house. So, you see, the doctor is fibbing—the Jamaican was not too ill to move.”
Mally sighed. “What was Andrew York like?”
Her mother shrugged. “Good-looking, I suppose. He had a sort of lost look, almost like a little boy, if that doesn’t sound too ridiculous. He perfectly devastated Maria.”
Mally : Signet Regency Romance (9781101568057) Page 2
