by S K Rizzolo
“If Dick has gone to Heaven, why’s everyone so sad?” Sarah had asked.
Penelope knew it was her daughter’s nature to brood for days if not given a satisfactory answer, yet what could she say? “It’s…it’s just that it was unexpected, love. We shall all need time to grow accustomed.”
So much change and loss in one little girl’s life. The absence of a father. A mother forced to work for her bread in a stranger’s establishment. And far away in Sicily, a grandfather Sarah had never met.
Penelope hurried across the room to Maggie’s side as if the wardrobe question were suddenly paramount. As indeed it seemed these days, for she was often at her wits’ end as to how to handle the continual dressing and undressing that took place in a fashionable London establishment.
Raised under a rather sterner philosophy, Penelope found herself quite unable to account for this penchant for wasting so many hours of one’s valuable time. Lady Ashe came down to breakfast en déshabillé, wore morning dress for shopping excursions, later donned afternoon dress, and finally blazed forth in full dress for evening parties.
Penelope had hoped her humble position as companion would exempt her from such requirements, but she had found that her employer, in a misplaced spirit of kindness perhaps, wished to treat her more as honored guest than as dependent. Delicately, Lady Ashe had even intimated that Penelope might wish to try some of her own garments that no longer quite “suited,” a temptation so far stoutly resisted.
“Let me help you, mum,” said Maggie, pushing Penelope on to the rug by the hearth and starting to unfasten the buttons at the back of her dress. “Let’s see…your hair. Shall I dress it in a high knot with some curls about your face?”
Maggie so loved to play at being a lady’s maid that Penelope could not discourage her. The directress of the St. Catherine Society, where Maggie was employed, seemed to feel she owed a debt of gratitude to Penelope for having helped to secure the philanthropic organization’s funding; thus, she did not object if Maggie left her two children and slipped away of an evening to spend a hour or two with Penelope. And Penelope always gave Maggie a few shillings to eke out her meager income. For Penelope, the hour spent in Maggie’s company was often the only time in the day she felt truly comfortable.
“Murder,” said Maggie now in a low voice as she pulled the silk gown over Penelope’s head. “I can’t say I’m surprised, mum.”
With a quick glance at Sarah, who now knelt by the fire whispering to her doll, Penelope replied, “What can you know of the matter?”
“Why once when Mrs. Sterling was so kind as to offer me a cup of tea in the kitchen before I took my leave, I met this Dick Ransom. I noticed him right off. There was something about him.”
“I can’t agree. I thought him the usual sort of footman. Young, tall, and fair of face. He knew how to blend in, Maggie. I don’t believe I ever exchanged more than a handful of words with him.”
“No more you should. It’s different for me, not that he paid me any heed, mind. All the same I saw what I saw, and you mark my words, mum, Mr. Chase will discover I’m right.”
“About what?” said Penelope, exasperated.
“Just this, mum. He thought too much of himself to be a proper servant.”
There seemed little to say in response, so Penelope turned back to her ablutions. A quarter hour later she sat at the little rosewood vanity table, applying the finishing touches with the haresfoot and powder. “You’ve done well.” She smiled into the other woman’s anxious freckled face in the glass. “I look quite the fine lady, and I thank you.”
Maggie beamed. “You look lovely, mum.” Reaching out, she fingered the strand of pearls around Penelope’s neck. It had belonged to Penelope’s mother, and its constant use of late had lent the pearls a deeper luster.
“Mrs. Pen,” Maggie said after a moment, “do you ever think of what might be if things was better managed with your wedded man? A house to be mistress of, a maid or two for the heavy work. Nothing on this scale, of course, but ’twould be your own.”
Penelope was silent, recalling all the lonely nights she had endured this past winter.
Chapter V
“Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Wolfe?” asked Sir Roger, bowing her into a chair.
They were in the drawing room, a dim chamber with a fireplace that smoked, old-fashioned heavy furniture, several darkened portraits, and an enormous curiosity cabinet of specimens from Wallace-Crag’s foreign tours.
Finch came forward to greet her, twitching at his shabby black coat to straighten it. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said, but almost before she could frame a polite reply, the secretary had again retired into the background.
Sir Roger sat opposite, eyes fixed on hers. “They hold that the soul of a dead man does not descend to the silent, sunless world of Hades, but becomes reincarnate elsewhere. If they are right, death is merely a point of change in perpetual existence.”
“Lucan, sir?”
She recognized the quotation from her reading. Her budding interest in the ancient history of Britain had pleased Sir Roger, for she had been more than willing to offer her services since the duties Julia required were so light. In any event, the task of cataloguing Sir Roger’s vast collection was a pursuit much more to Penelope’s taste.
He nodded with approval. “Fascinating, isn’t it? According to Lucan, the Druids believed a soul was transferred to another person after death. However, Mela and to some extent Diodorus imply something rather different—”
He was interrupted by the door opening. Ashe came in, dressed meticulously with his usual understated elegance, making Penelope think not for the first time how out of place he seemed in this eccentric household.
“Good evening, Sir Roger. Mrs. Wolfe.” He nodded at Finch, who offered a deep bow.
Wallace-Crag nodded genially. “Ah, Ashe. Mrs. Wolfe and I were just discussing the transmigration of the soul. A fascinating topic, would you not agree?”
The viscount did not at first reply, his glance flickering over Penelope. “You’re in looks tonight, Mrs. Wolfe, in spite of your dreadful shock this morning. May I tell you how sorry I am such a thing should happen to you in this house?”
“No need, my lord. It is rather poor Dick who deserves our pity.”
She was never sure what to make of Lord Ashe. His demeanor to her varied between flirtatiousness and cold formality, as if at times he disapproved of his wife’s choice of companions, though occasionally, as now, he seemed human, almost likeable. In his late fifties, he was yet a handsome man. Penelope could not help wondering about his relationship with his volatile wife. She had heard the whispers that between them Sir Roger and Lord Ashe had cooked up the marriage, the one side to provide pots of money and a youthful bride, the other a title and an ancient name. A common enough arrangement, Penelope supposed.
Ashe turned to Sir Roger. “I’ll see that fellow from Bow Street tomorrow. He’s to report to me after the inquest. I don’t know that there’s anything further we can do.”
“Nothing I know of except that we’ll need to make a push to find the young man’s family and arrange for a proper send-off.”
Finch broke in. “If you’ll excuse me, Sir Roger, I must say I don’t think the manner of ‘send off’ truly signifies. The fact is that Ransom has put off his earthly corruption to become Spirit. Nothing can touch him more.”
“Nonsense,” said Ashe. “The funeral service is for the living, not the dead, and is necessary to preserve the decencies.”
“Stop your bleating, Owen, unless you wish to appear more the sapskull than usual.”
“As you say, Sir Roger.” The secretary retreated behind the cabinet.
“Where the deuce is Julia?” said Sir Roger. “I hope she does not intend to keep us waiting for our dinner again.”
“She’ll be along.”
Penelope noticed that a frown had descended upon Ashe’s brow at the mention of his wife’s name. Fortunately, Julia entered upon his words
with Timberlake on her heels to announce dinner. At the sight of her, resplendent in white satin and a silk shawl, the frown in Ashe’s eyes only deepened.
“You’re just in time, my love.”
She kept her gaze averted. “That is fortunate. Poole would fuss and scold, no matter what I said.”
“Ah, but the result is surely worth it.” As Ashe lifted her hand to his lips, Penelope was amazed to see her snatch back her hand, her face twisting in anger.
But the moment passed nearly unremarked, for Sir Roger had already stepped toward his daughter for the nightly procession to the dining room. It was a ritual Penelope rather dreaded when there was no company to dine, as she could not imagine why Lord Ashe should wish to give his arm to his wife’s companion while Sir Roger took in Julia, Finch trailing behind.
At table, as Sir Roger and Lord Ashe upheld a flow of easy conversation, Penelope kept her attention on her plate, finding that the rigors of the day had made her hungry. And the delicate balance between being conversable yet not putting herself forward in any unbecoming way, difficult at the best of times, seemed beyond her tonight.
Julia too seemed oddly withdrawn, barely responding to the remarks her husband addressed to her. She drank glass after glass of wine, refilled by a hovering George, her hands trembling visibly as she lifted the crystal to her lips. After a while, Ashe abandoned his attempts to engage her in conversation, but Penelope saw that he watched his wife from the corner of his eye.
Relieved that the interminable and uncomfortable meal approached its end, Penelope was just scooping up the last of a fruit tart when Ashe addressed her, his voice suddenly very smooth. “By the by, Mrs. Wolfe. I understand it was Mr. Edward Buckler we have to thank for your presence here. Did he not provide your character?”
Penelope sat up straighter. “That is so, sir,” she replied politely.
“I hope you have remembered me to Mr. Buckler,” said Sir Roger. “I’ve always liked that young fellow, not that he ever had much to say to a musty fellow like me. Still, I have often noted that he possesses a fine mind and a sturdy integrity.”
Finch gave a small cough. “You speak of the barrister Mr. Edward Buckler? Lady Wallace-Crag always thought well of his family.” He looked at his master as if to ascertain how this mention of Sir Roger’s dead wife and Julia’s mother went over, then at Penelope. “Mr. Edward Buckler’s brother holds the neighboring estate in Dorset. Both Mr. Bucklers are most fine gentlemen. In point of fact, Lady Wallace-Crag used to say—”
“In point of fact, Mr. Edward Buckler’s brother is a baronet, not a mister, Finch. Not that it truly signifies,” said Sir Roger.
Finch fell silent, and Sir Roger turned again to Penelope, saying, “Perhaps you’ll tell us, Mrs. Wolfe, how it was that you made Mr. Buckler’s acquaintance. Your families know each other, do they?”
“No, sir. A mutual friend, Mr. Ezekiel Thorogood, presented me.” She certainly wasn’t about to tell him the circumstances of that first meeting, when she’d employed Buckler to defend her husband on a possible murder charge.
“Thorogood? It was he you went to dine with the other day, Penelope,” broke in Julia. “An attorney, didn’t you say?”
“Oh indeed,” said Sir Roger, losing interest, but Penelope, noticing that Lord Ashe was staring down his nose at her, a smirk on his lips, felt hot words rise to her lips. She opened her mouth to make what would likely have been an ill-judged remark, but was forestalled by the entrance of Timberlake.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Roger,” he said, struggling visibly to speak in his usual sepulchral tones. “One of the grooms has apprehended a woman in the garden. She was peering through the window. God only knows what mischief was intended.”
“Have her arrested at once,” said Ashe.
Timberlake hesitated. “Of course, my lord. But I’m afraid she is queer in her attic. The men can barely hold her she struggles so fierce.”
Sir Roger pushed back his chair. “We had best go and see for ourselves, Ashe. Julia, my dear, you will remain here with Mrs. Wolfe.”
Julia regarded him with an unblinking gaze that held more than a hint of challenge. “I think not, Father. I will accompany you. Surely you do not mean to leave us here on our own with just him for protection?” A contemptuous wave of her hand dismissed Owen Finch.
Timberlake again addressed Sir Roger. “I am sorry, sir, but Mrs. Wolfe had better accompany you. In the flurry of the moment I neglected to mention that we found her young one out of doors. Apparently, the child has strayed from her nurse.”
“Why didn’t you say so at once?” demanded Julia. “Penelope, you must take my shawl.”
“Sarah?” said Penelope, nearly dropping the wrap as her fingers did not obey her.
“Not to worry,” said the butler. “The child is unharmed.”
“Finch!” snapped Sir Roger, catching sight of his secretary hovering around the door. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
“I…I thought you would wish me to summon the authorities.”
“Go then. And let the rest of us proceed to the garden and get to the root of this insanity.”
They surged down the corridor, into the library, and out the French doors. It was a calm evening, hushed and expectant, as if nature, sensing the nearness of spring, no longer found it expedient to bluster and storm. The voices carried clearly on the crisp evening air.
A group had clustered around a woman who thrust her body first in one direction, then another as if engaged in some obscene dance. Two grooms held on grimly while the coachman called out advice and warnings. Sarah, a tiny, huddled figure, looked on, unnoticed.
“Watch it, lads,” the coachman called, “she’s a proper handful. She’ll bite you if you’re not careful. You’ll have to plant her a facer before she be giving over.”
Sir Roger called, “No, do not strike the woman. Let us first see if we can reach a glimmer of reason.”
Reaching Sarah, Penelope scooped her up in the shawl.
“Is she all right, Penelope?”
“Just chilled, ma’am.” She whispered to Sarah, “What are you doing out here? Mama was so frightened.”
Sarah burrowed her face in Penelope’s neck. “I saw her from the window earlier, just standing there in the rain. She looked so sad. So I came to see what was wrong. I thought I’d find you and tell you.”
Penelope struggled to keep her voice even. “You’ve found me, sweetheart, but you must never come out of doors in the dark again. Come, we will get you back to bed.”
Without another word, Penelope hurried into the house, where at the foot of the staircase she encountered the nursemaid.
“I thought she was in bed, ma’am,” the girl burst out. “She slipped out when I wasn’t looking, and I’m sure to lose my place!”
No more than you deserve, Penelope wanted to tell her, but as she gazed into the stricken face, her indignation faded. “You must be more careful in future, Mary. Anything might have happened. Her voice trembled as she put her deepest fear into words. “What if that creature out there had picked her up and borne her away? Look, she is nearly asleep. You may take her.”
Returning to the terrace, Penelope was in time to hear Sir Roger say sternly, “Calm yourself at once. You must tell us what you want.”
The woman twisted away. She was covered in a voluminous cloak, but now her hood fell back to reveal a countenance ravaged by fear and desperation, hair straggling over gaunt cheeks, eyes rolling so that the whites gleamed in the torchlight. Penelope heard Sir Roger’s breath hiss between his teeth; he seemed frozen. Julia reached out to clutch her father’s sleeve, but when the woman lurched in her direction, she shrank back into the shadows with a little cry.
Penelope stepped into the torchlight. Becoming aware of her presence, the woman extended her hands. “Please. Help me. I must find…”
“Find who?”
The eyes rolled again. After a moment, Penelope tore her gaze away to glance down at the woma
n’s hands, still held out in appeal. In the flickering light, she saw faded reddish scars crisscrossing her wrists.
As if the spell holding him in place had shattered, Sir Roger pushed forward. “She’s naught but an old Bedlamite. Perhaps she merely wanted to pay her respects to Ransom, having heard of his passing. For pity’s sake, we will let her go.”
Everyone gaped at him, and Ashe growled, “I do not think that would be wise, sir. Let her go so she can come back later and roust us from our beds? Or worse, murder us in ’em. No, she wants locking up.”
“She was trying to open the French window, Sir Roger, when I come upon her,” gasped one of the grooms as he subdued a flailing arm. “I saw her rattle the handle.”
“Perhaps she did wish to pay her respects,” said Penelope with some doubt. “The word will have spread by this time. I believe the people often feel such curiosity.”
A look of confusion crossed the baronet’s face, and it seemed he would address the woman, whose resistance had finally begun to diminish from sheer exhaustion. Instead, he turned away. “I suppose you are right, Ashe. There’s a chance, I suppose, that this pitiful creature is dangerous. We must leave it to the authorities.”
On cue, Timberlake bustled onto the terrace, escorting the Watch and several parish constables.
“Here, what’s this?” blustered the head constable as they came up. He glared at Sir Roger. “Evil doings, sir, but we’ll manage this little problem, all right.” He gestured to his companions, who moved forward to seize hold of the woman. She had gone limp, having utterly divorced herself from her surroundings.
“Where will you take her, constable?”
