by Jo Beverley
He saw Hal pull a book off a shelf, put it down, and riffle through it. So that was all right. It was over two years since the amputation, so he must have learned to cope, and surely they were friends enough that he’d say if he couldn’t.
Simon settled to an orderly investigation of the papers. He’d deliberately left the door open so he’d see if Jane left the dining room or hear if she called for him.
He found Isaiah’s will, and it was exactly as Baldwin had said. Apart from a few specific bequests—he’d left Simon his guns and some Indian artifacts—everything went to “my dear niece, Jane Anne Otterburn, who has brought such pleasure to my life.”
How much would it amount to? Baldwin didn’t consider it much, but Jane thought it enough to live on. A substantial sum, a few thousand even, would make her more acceptable to his family.
He found a number of invoices and bills and a hodgepodge of recent letters. Presumably these people should receive an announcement of the death, but Simon knew few of them. Who should get a personal letter? And what did one say?
He dug his fingers into his brow.
Chapter Five
“Can I do anything to help?”
Simon looked up to see Jane in the doorway.
She said, “I can imagine Uncle Isaiah’s opinion of my sitting watch over his earthly remains when I could be doing something useful. Ross has supplied a professional mourner.”
Simon rose. “If you feel able, I would be very grateful. I find I don’t know most of his correspondents or the context of most of his business documents.”
“I probably do. You’re pressed into service, too, Major.”
“Willingly, ma’am.”
She looked between the two of them and settled her gaze on Simon. “Would it be inappropriate for Major Beaumont to call me Jane, and for me to use his first name? I’m afraid I can’t start calling you Mr. St. Bride, Simon.”
“I would be honored and delighted,” Hal said, “as long as your tyrannical husband does not object.”
“I’ll give you tyrannical. . . .” But Simon smiled at Jane, grateful for her practical good sense and the way she’d lightened the mood without being flippant.
“Hal plans to travel back with us,” he said.
“Oh, excellent news.”
Simon wondered if her sincerity rose from the same cause as his. He probably should have another forthright talk with her about the marriage bed.
Whatever her nervousness about that, here, with the three of them together, she seemed comfortable. She sat beside Simon and went through the letters, sorting them into acquaintances and friends, giving him details about people he didn’t know. Together, they composed an announcement and she offered to write them all.
“That would be an imposition,” he said.
“I’ll be glad to do it. I’ve been acting as Uncle Isaiah’s secretary since Salter left.”
Simon had been aware that she’d assisted in some way, but not so formally. “Dare I hope that you understand some of his business?”
Her eyes flickered as if she was choosing a response, but then she said, “All of it. With his health, and his hands often unsteady . . . He wouldn’t allow me to put things in order here, but I kept his books and wrote most of his letters.”
She soon revealed a depth of understanding that suggested she’d been doing most of the work. He caught himself wondering why she hadn’t insisted on better business decisions but then knew he was ridiculous. She was eighteen years old. Was she to argue with and overrule a man nearly three times her age who had far more experience of the world?
They paused for refreshments at noon. Before Simon could return to work, a uniformed aide arrived commanding his presence at the lieutenant governor’s residence.
“Damn,” Simon said once the man was safely waiting in the hall. “I should have gone without being summoned. Hal, you’ll stay here?”
“Of course.”
“Will there be difficulties?” Jane asked, looking pale. “Over the duel?”
“No, don’t worry. He’ll be annoyed, but I’ve been annoying him for months. This might work out well, in fact. He won’t want the duel to resume.”
The brief walk to the lieutenant governor’s house was constantly interrupted by people wanting to express sorrow at Isaiah’s death. Simon wondered if it was his imagination that saw blame in many eyes. He certainly blamed himself. His rash duel had led to Isaiah’s death.
Gore, the man responsible for the whole of Upper Canada, was as annoyed as expected. “Messy business, sir. Very messy. I’ll see if I can bring about a resolution, but it’s dashed difficult when you questioned the man’s integrity!”
“Better than dragging a lady’s name in the dirt, sir. McArthur’s comments about Miss Otterburn and her uncle were completely unwarranted.”
Gore turned redder. “Yes, yes, but couldn’t you have insulted his hat or something? I’ll see what I can do to smooth his feathers.”
Simon thought McArthur should be plucked not soothed, but he controlled himself. “I’d be grateful, sir. I have a wife entirely dependent on me now.”
“Aye, and that’s another thing. Would have been wiser to be more open about your understanding, St. Bride. And wiser of Miss Otterburn to attend more events. My wife was put out—put out, sir!—to have her kind invitations refused.”
“My wife is somewhat shy, sir, and she has been in mourning for both a mother and a cousin.”
“Aye, aye, but a concert wouldn’t have hurt. Or a summer expedition to Castle Frank.”
Simon grasped solid excuses. “Her pale skin easily burns, sir, and she seems to attract the mosquitoes.”
He’d returned to York in July to find Jane covered with bites. He’d offered an Indian concoction that had given her some relief, but he hadn’t thought the natives’ preventative of grease would be appreciated. He didn’t favor it himself, though at times he used it.
It was one of the impossible problems here that the settlers were often disgusted by greasy, smelly Indians while tortured by the insect bites the grease could prevent.
“The English climate will suit her better,” he said. “I have passage booked on the Eweretta.”
The Eweretta was the North West Company’s fur ship. Her annual arrival in Montreal in April marked the true beginning of the Canadian spring. Her departure in late October signaled the approach of the long winter. She took few passengers, but for those few she provided all possible comforts.
Gore nodded. “Excellent. She won’t wait for anyone this year, however, with that volcanic eruption playing merry hell with the weather. So the sooner you leave for Montreal, the better.”
The message couldn’t be clearer. Take your troublesome wife and self elsewhere.
Simon met his eyes. “I would not wish to appear to be shirking my obligations, sir.”
“If McArthur isn’t here, you can’t be expected to wait on his pleasure and risk being trapped by winter.”
So.
“Of course, I would always be available to him in England, sir.”
“Quite.” Gore escorted him to the door. “Happy to provide any assistance in settling Trewitt’s affairs. Good, sound man.”
Simon left feeling half a ton lighter. He wasn’t a coward, but the aborted duel had served its purpose and he had Jane to consider. If Gore sent McArthur on an errand that would keep him away from York for the next few weeks, his honor might be satisfied without more shots.
“Thank heavens,” Jane said when he reported back, her eyes bright. “So when do we leave?”
“The Eweretta’s set to sail on the twenty-eighth of October, and we should allow a fortnight to get to Montreal. All being well, it might take only half of that, but Gore’s probably correct. This year, the ship won’t wait for us.”
“But that leaves under three weeks to deal with everything here. It can’t be done. Inventory. Pack. Sell the house. Dispose of all it contains.”
“You would prefer to stay unt
il spring?”
He saw her readjust. “Very well. It must be done.” She returned briskly to the desk and the papers.
Simon turned to Hal. “The Eweretta’s prime passenger accommodation. You should send with haste to book. Galloway’s a good agent in Montreal. If there’s no space he may be able to find room for us all on another ship.”
Hal sat to write a letter and then left to see it on its way.
In the hall, the clock chimed two. Six hours. Six hours since Isaiah’s death. Simon turned to Jane, a black island of calm, seated at the desk, going methodically through documents. It was unreasonable to resent her composure, but he did.
Had she truly cared for her uncle at all? But he had only to think back to the morning to know just how deeply her feelings ran. This calm was simply more of the peculiarity of Jane Otterburn, his wife.
Since she had the paperwork in hand, he completed the job he’d foolishly given Hal and checked the books for loose papers. He added a great deal to the pile of scraps, letters, and currency notes. He kept an eye out for any book he or Jane might want, but they were things like gazetteers, bound journals, and trade directories, mostly out of date. He sighed.
“What’s the matter?”
What the devil do you think is the matter?
He squashed down anger. “It feels damnable to throw away Isaiah’s things, even books like the 1795 Directory of Atlantic Ports. He kept them and so I want to, in memory of him.”
“He kept them because he couldn’t be bothered to throw them out. I don’t think he treasured them, Simon.”
Weren’t women supposed to be the emotional ones?
He excused himself and went to sit vigil with Isaiah. A dark-clad mute stood in attendance, but the man slipped out of the room as soon as Simon entered.
Simon knew he’d come here as a reproach to Jane, which was flat-out wrong. Isaiah wasn’t here, only his corpse. Jane had been correct to say that he would have no patience with them wasting time on his remains. All he’d required was that Simon take care of Jane, which he was failing to do.
He let the professional take his place, returned to do better.
Hal returned, bringing his two servants with him—a lanky young man called Treadwell, who’d been his batman once and was now his valet, and a short block of middle-aged muscle called Oglethorpe. His title was groom, but he looked able to deal with anything, including danger. Simon wasn’t sure what to do with them, however, so suggested they could go through the stables and other outer buildings, sorting out rubbish, preparing for an auction.
“Why not sell all the contents with the house?” Hal suggested. “Clear out the absolute rubbish, yes, but leave the rest.”
It was a blinding relief. “My God, yes.” Simon turned to Jane. “Any furniture or other items you value we will ship home, of course.”
She frowned. “That would be foolish. Carriage would be more than its value.”
“I’m not a pauper. If you want a desk or chair, take it.”
“Well, I don’t.” She stood up. “Excuse me. I must attend to dinner.”
She swept out of the room and he knew some of her sharpness was in response to his. Damn. He still resented the fact that she was in control of herself. He wanted her to be a dissolved mess of tears. He felt a good woman, an honest woman, should be. Which was unfair.
He tried to pull his mind into focus and do some meaningful work, but by the time he and Hal were summoned to dine in the parlor, he wasn’t sure he’d achieved much. When he discovered that Jane had efficiently arranged for a small table to be set up and a good dinner prepared, it stirred the same resentments.
He tried to act appropriately. “A miracle,” he said lightly. “How clever you are.”
She blushed—he hoped with pleasure.
As they started on Scotch broth, she said, “So, how do we ship our possessions to Montreal, and how much can we take on the Eweretta?”
Why on earth would he want a weeping, helpless wife when he could have a calm, capable one?
They made practical plans, but eventually talk dwindled as if the burden of the day crept in with the evening shadows. He saw that Jane hadn’t eaten much of her meal, and nor had he. Work was a relief. Idleness might kill him. He noticed for the first time that Hal was cutting roast pork with a combination knife and fork.
His interest must have been too obvious, for Hal said, “It’s called a Nelson fork. Knife-sharp along one thicker tine, and rocker-shaped. Clever thing, with the advantage that I could probably slit someone’s throat with it if necessary.”
Since the subject was in the open, Simon asked, “Would you not find a hook or some such useful?”
“At times.” Hal didn’t seem to mind. “It’s the arm that’s the problem. Very complex thing, an arm. I have a wooden one with elbow joint and all, but I can only move it with my other arm. I visited a man in Ireland who’s working on something better. Complicated matter of moving the chest and shoulder muscles to operate joints. You never know what there’ll be one day.”
He spoke without distress, but it still sounded like an appalling problem. Simon didn’t know what to say.
He was saved by Sal coming in, not for the dishes, but with a cloth sling full of wood for the fire. Simon remembered that most of the time Isaiah had brought in the wood. He rose and took the sling, saying he’d deal with it. In truth, he was escaping into work again.
He brought in two more loads, taking one up to his bedroom and then, after a hesitation, filling the woodbox in Jane’s. Though he’d glimpsed into her room occasionally, he’d never crossed the threshold before and felt intrusive. He supposed a husband had the right, but he didn’t feel that way.
He was certain he had no right to study the room, but he did it anyway, seeking answers to the conundrum she presented. It was sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, a clothespress, and a rocking chair by the fire. This all left quite a bit of space and he wondered why the bed wasn’t larger. Some other nunlike choice?
Then he remembered that the narrow bed was because Isaiah had lovingly furnished this for two. When Jane had arrived alone, the extra bed, chest of drawers, and chair had been removed to spare her grief. It would seem that she’d not chosen to change anything.
She’d made it her own, but probably without spending much money. Why, when Isaiah would have delighted to buy her anything she desired?
The quilt on the bed was a patchwork of scraps—pretty enough, but not elegant—and the fine carpet was protected by the sort of country rug again made of scraps. A knitted blanket was folded over the chair. Perhaps she wrapped herself in it on the coldest days. A pleasant enough thought, but it reminded him of the dull, knitted shawl she often wore. Isaiah would have bought her the finest kashmir.
He realized the room felt like one in a simple house, or even in a cottage. If she was uneasy in Trewitt House, what would she make of Brideswell? And yet it was strangely comfortable. With bits and scraps and the work of her own hands, Jane had created a pleasant nest.
She’d surrounded herself with pictures from her past. That was hardly surprising. He had a picture of Brideswell on his own wall along with miniatures of his parents.
Hers were all crudely framed, however, apart from the not-very-good painting of Archibald Otterburn. No mistaking father and daughter even though Simon suspected that she had more energy and strength in one finger than her father had ever possessed. He’d died from getting caught out in the rain. That didn’t surprise.
She got her strength from her mother, as was obvious in the pencil portrait of Martha Otterburn that he hadn’t seen before. Here, caught in her kitchen, she looked more relaxed and kindly.
Beside that was a less successful work that must be a self-portrait by the cousin. The quality of the drawing equaled the others, but the pose had the awkwardness common in self-portraits. She looked so wooden it was impossible to imagine what she’d been like, but even so, the resemblance to Jane was remarkable
between distant cousins. Nan Otterburn’s face had been a little longer, perhaps her nose a little straighter, but assuming the coloring was the same, they must have seemed like twins.
Nan’s talent had been remarkable for her age. A tragic loss of perhaps a genius. He saw no signature, but her drawings were finer work than the painting, which was boldly signed B K McKee.
Then he spotted one other small drawing sitting framed on the desk. He picked it up to see a two-story house that was clearly part of a terrace, even though the image faded to nothing on either side.
Their home in Carlisle, he assumed. Decent but modest. Very modest. Otterburn’s school had apparently been well respected and had prepared many boys for grander ones, but he’d clearly not made a fortune at it. There was something in the front window. He held the drawing closer and made out a card saying: Mrs. Otterburn. Haberdasher.
He couldn’t help it. His first thought was that Jane must never show the picture to his family or to anyone in her new circle.
He pushed the thought away, but it lingered like grit in a wound. He’d married a shopkeeper’s daughter, one who’d worked in the shop, and though he could tell himself he didn’t mind, he minded that others would.
He put the picture down, reminding himself that the Otterburns were respectable Scottish gentry headed, he gathered, by a Sir David Otterburn, a philanthropist of some note. Simon could make some comment about charity beginning at home, since Sir David had not taken in Nan, but still, it was a decent connection. Even her relationship with Isaiah was in her favor, for he’d done well for himself in the New World and mixed with the highest levels here in York.
He wasn’t ashamed of his wife’s origins, he assured himself.
It would simply be better if no one back home knew about the shop.
Chapter Six
They worked through the evening as if, thought Simon, it all had to be done in the one day. Or because work was escape from grief.
When the hall clock tinkled nine, however, Hal rose. “I should return to the hotel.”
