The Mystery at Falconbridge Hall

by Maggi Andersen

  There were women who liked that kind of man, well-born ladies, some of them. He’d observed one or two casting an appreciative glance in Lovel’s direction. A friend of Clara’s, Lady Jenny Cavanagh, had disappeared for hours and later confessed to Clara that she had been with Lovel in his room.

  Vanessa obviously didn’t appreciate Lovel’s attractions. Julian gave a wry smile. If she’d shown any evidence of it, he would have been tempted to let the man go. Jealousy was an emotion he hated and fought within himself. He couldn’t blame Clara for making him prey to it. He’d come to realize it was inherently in his nature. A disturbing thing for a scientist to admit.

  Making his unsteady way over to the cabin to join the men he wished he could unwind and let the allure of the Amazon seep into his consciousness. But something niggled at him, an undercurrent that persisted even though things appeared to have settled down at the Hall. He knew Johnson would guard the place like a bulldog. Blythe would be safe. More importantly, she would feel safe. It was obvious she adored Vanessa. Still, he couldn’t tamp down his unease. If so many people hadn’t depended on him as expedition leader, he would have let them go without him this time. In the end, he’d felt pulled in two. Was he giving rein to his imagination? It irked him that he could not pinpoint the cause.

  Hewson appeared at the rail as the first glimpse of the city of Para appeared around a bend in the river. “We’ll be docking soon.”

  The busy port was filled with ships and native canoes. Heavy-toned vessels from Europe unloaded materials for the ship builders. Bales of cotton were loaded onto the ships heading north.

  Exotic Para was a city of white buildings roofed with red tiles, dotted with palm trees and ringed by forests. The towers and cupolas of churches and convents rose against a brilliant blue skyline, which was a jolt to the eye after the paler skies of the cold north. The banquet of color sound and movement came at Julian in a rush and at first, was hard to take in.

  The men walked through the narrow streets. Heavy rain fell without warning, startling them. Not gentle rain like at home, but needle-like drops, drumming into the streets, filling the gutters, and forming rivulets across the road in a matter of minutes. The men sought cover in a doorway, but a moment later, the rain ceased abruptly, as if someone had turned off a tap. It refreshed Julian and offered some relief from the hot, moist air, but it proved a brief respite. Minutes later, the heat had settled over him again. They continued through a busy throng of merchants, soldiers, and priests who had flooded from the shops and buildings.

  A woman passed them carrying a red water-jar on her head, her hips swaying. Julian turned to watch her, marveling at her grace and balance. Hewson met his eye and winked. “What a pity, English women don’t do that.”

  “Everything is magnified here.” Forster grinned, obviously thrilled to be back. “The smells, the sounds, the sights. There’s one word for it—abundance.”

  The fragrant air was heavy with the scent of fruit trees bowed down with blossoms and alive with humming birds, the tiny wings a blur, almost too fast for the human eye to see.

  Impossibly bright and burgeoning with life, Para bored its way into Julian’s soul, its rampant beauty almost hurting his eyes. The cacophony of whirring cicadas became background noise he barely noticed as he absorbed the ripeness and brilliant color. England, with its muted tones seemed a lifetime away.

  They had been invited by a local government official to stay in a bare, stone-walled country house. They would remain in Para for a few days while they saw to the landing of their baggage and apparatus and hired native bearers and pack mules.

  They spent the rest of the day checking through their provisions as they were unloaded on the dock. Hewson examined the mosquito nets for holes, Horace Carpenter scanned the medical supplies and Julian checked the food and the rest of the equipment with Lord Foster. Buoyed, they discovered that for once, all had arrived unscathed. The most taxing part of the journey was yet to come, however. They’d continue by river, planning to use the many tributaries which would take them closer to their destination much faster. Then they would leave the boat and trek on foot through the jungle.

  The country house was spartan but adequate. It would be the last reasonably comfortable quarters they’d enjoy for some months. As the men sat around drinking and talking, Julian wandered outside. A small flock of brightly colored parrots flew two by two at a great height in the blue sky. Raindrops sparkled on the foliage, steaming in the glowing sun. A two-tailed yellow lizard climbed the stone wall, disappearing into a brilliantly flowered creeper, and a wonderful variety of butterflies rode the soft breeze. Julian waited for the usual kick of excitement such a sight gave him. This time it didn’t come; instead, his shoulder muscles tightened, his mind refusing to let go of Vanessa and home. He went inside to write her a letter. He would send it that afternoon. It was unlikely to reach them for a month or more.

  In the fading twilight, they ate a meal and discussed the first leg of their journey as insects circled and hurled themselves against the glass lamps. Hewson bashed at a brazil nut with an iron frying pan. “Hard as a rock,” he said, giving up. “A macaw can crush these to a pulp with its mighty beak, but I need a hammer.”

  Night descended fast to utter blackness once the lamps were doused. Julian lay in his hammock, listening to the cacophony of shrill crickets and croaking tree frogs. He swung gently, missing Vanessa’s soft body beside him, and waited for sleep to claim him in the strange, makeshift bed. An hour later, with snores erupting around him, he was still wide-awake. He gave up and left the hammock. Moving outside into the warm night, he lit a cigarillo and stared into the velvety darkness.

  A moment later, Hewson joined him. “I can’t sleep either. It takes a while to adjust to this heat.” Sitting beside Julian, he winked as he lit his pipe. “Missing home? I was initially surprised at your choice of bride, I must say, but on meeting Vanessa, I understood. She’s refreshing.”

  Julian nodded. He’d been prepared for some comment from friends and colleagues when he married Vanessa. Their opinion didn’t matter if Blythe was happy.

  Blythe’s face had lit up when told he and Vanessa were to marry. Her overjoyed expression was more fascinating to him than the new-fangled electric illumination at the Royal Institute in London.

  “I’d begun to think you would pick the Patterson girl,” Hewson said. “Sulky piece that. She seems desperate to escape her mother.” He grimaced. “And her mother had you firmly in her sights.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “You wouldn’t, Grieve. You never see much farther than your latest specimen.”

  Julian yawned. “I don’t see why I attracted Mrs. Patterson’s attention. There are far bigger fish to fry. The Earl of Summerforde for one.”

  “Dry as dust and old to boot.” Hewson cast Julian a shrewd look. “Perhaps the daughter preferred you.”

  Julian shrugged and tapped his cigarillo out on the wall.

  “I worried that you would never get over Clara,” Hewson went on. “Clara’s beauty was peerless.”

  “You don’t find the sort of love I felt for Clara twice in a lifetime,” Julian admitted. It had been the destructive kind that burned a fellow up, and he understood well enough why his marriage had failed. Clara had hated his frequent absences. She wished him to worship at her feet as many men had done, but that wasn’t in his nature. He was contemptuous of those ruled by passion; it seemed uncivilized. He preferred to remain the master of his emotions. He hated himself when he’d failed.

  Hewson rose and tapped out his pipe. “I think I’ll try to sleep.”

  Julian followed him in. He lay recalling the conversation between him and Abigail Patterson in the wood the day after he and Vanessa had wed. Her behavior had surprised him, and he’d considered himself lucky not to have pursued her. But he’d never considered her a suitable mother for Blythe. His thoughts turned to what he and Vanessa might do if they were lying together in this hammock. It would prove a
n interesting challenge. He smiled as he fell asleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Autumn gained a steady hold on the landscape, as the last of the leaves fell, joining great drifts to be swept up and burned by the gardeners. The skeletal trees stood bare and trails of smoke spiraled into the cooling air over the estate grounds.

  As the weather remained fine, Vanessa and Blythe ventured farther on their bikes. Leaving the Hall, they cycled down the road. The going was easier; they sailed along, exerting little energy on the gradual downhill slope toward the village. Blythe’s tinkling laughter erupted into the air, delighting Vanessa. It had been absent for a while.

  “Shall we go as far as the village, Nessa?”

  “Aren’t you getting tired?”

  “No! Could we have scones, jam, and cream at the teashop?”

  Vanessa smiled. “Like a Cornish cream tea? What a splendid idea.” Lessons would have to wait. Heavens, she was becoming as indulgent as Julian.

  Blythe managed the ride to the village teashop with little trouble. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright when they parked their bikes outside the building. They chose a table beside the bay window.

  As they drank their tea, a curricle pulled up outside, and a smartly dressed gentleman stepped down. He removed his hat when he caught sight of them through the window. With a sigh of dismay, Vanessa replaced her cup in its saucer and turned to watch Charles Frobisher as he made his way over to them. “This is a pleasant surprise, Lady Falconbridge,” he said. “May I join you?”

  “Please do,” Vanessa said. “Blythe, this is Mr. Frobisher, a colleague of your father’s. My stepdaughter, Lady Blythe.”

  He bowed. “Yes, we met at the tennis party.”

  He removed his dark-gray coat. Placing his hat, gloves, and cane to one side, he threw up the tails of his blue coat and sat down.

  Julian had forbidden her to associate with him, but it would have been rude to refuse. “Has your father’s health improved, Mr. Frobisher?”

  “He is much recovered, thank you.”

  “I’m surprised to find you in our neck of the woods.”

  “I’ve been calling on a friend.” He beckoned the waitress.

  “Someone I might know?”

  “Indeed, a friend of yours and his lordship’s. Miss Patterson.”

  Vanessa felt a twinge of unease for Miss Patterson although she was hardly a friend. “I trust you found her well?”

  “Positively blooming with good health, as you both appear to be, I must say. The air is fresher here than London and better for the complexion if you ladies are anything to go by. One good thing you can say about the area.”

  “You don’t like Clapham, Mr. Frobisher?”

  “A little dull for my tastes.”

  The waitress brought a cup and saucer and a fresh pot of tea to the table. “Will you be having something to eat, sir?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “That will be all.”

  Vanessa watched him stir sugar into his tea. “You prefer city life, Mr. Frobisher?”

  “It offers more excitement, although I prefer Paris, a far more liberal city.”

  “Surely one must balance excitement with relaxation.”

  He looked at her over the top of the cup as he took a deep sip. “I have a lover’s thirst for excitement, Lady Falconbridge.”

  Vanessa tensed and glanced at Blythe. She’d finished her chocolate and was fiddling with her napkin. She stood. “Please forgive us. We must go. Blythe is due in the schoolroom.”

  He pushed back his chair. “We’ve yet to set a date for our trip to the museum, Lady Falconbridge.”

  “Are we to go the museum?” Blythe asked, her interest caught.

  “Your stepmother and I planned to take you,” Frobisher said. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

  “I don’t believe we can impose on Mr. Frobisher’s time, Blythe,” Vanessa said hastily. “He has his trip to prepare for. But I promise to take you.”

  Frobisher scowled. “I’m sure Lady Blythe would appreciate my observations.”

  “No, thank you. Nessa will take me,” Blythe said, coolly polite.

  He ran his gaze over Blythe, making Vanessa bristle. “You have your mother’s delicate features. You are sure to become a beauty in a few years.”

  “Come, Blythe.” Vanessa helped her into her coat and gathered up her gloves. “Goodbye, Mr. Frobisher, I do hope your trip proves productive.”

  “I leave at the end of the week. Do you wish me to carry a letter to your husband, Lady Falconbridge?”

  “Thank you, but there’s no need as we write regularly.”

  He opened his mouth, and she tensed afraid he would give her away by revealing how unlikely it was that Julian would receive them.

  Before he could, Vanessa took Blythe’s hand, and they went into the street. His offer to carry her letter was tempting for the briefest moment, but she had no wish for Julian to think she’d been spending time in Frobisher’s company.

  As they left the village, Blythe pedaled over to her. “You don’t like Mr. Frobisher, do you, Nessa?”

  How perceptive she was, Vanessa thought. “I don’t know him well.”

  “I don’t like his eyes. Can we ride our horses tomorrow?”

  “I do believe you are horse crazy, Blythe.”

  She giggled. “I prefer animals. Some people aren’t nice.”

  “A few perhaps. But I think most people are, Blythe.”

  “You are, and Father is.”

  “As are you, sweetheart.” Vanessa felt fiercely protective of her. She disliked that Blythe had met a man of Frobisher’s ilk, although it was clear the child was too intelligent to be charmed by him.

  As they rode up the slight rise, her thoughts centered on Abigail Patterson. Had she become involved with that man? Vanessa hoped not.

  Their daily routine seldom altering, the weeks followed without incident through the autumn mists, the days becoming shorter and colder. Then Christmas was upon them.

  On Christmas Eve, snow fell, softening and muffling the landscape. It was pretty, and a white Christmas would have been delightful but for the fact that Julian was absent, and they were patiently waiting for his return.

  The kitchen was hung with greenery and holly when Vanessa came to stir the sixpences into the plum pudding. Cook was making mincemeat and wassail and preparing oyster stuffing for the goose. The house was filled with good cheer, which made Vanessa miss Julian even more. She busied herself organizing the staff bonuses and gift boxes and buying Blythe’s presents, which were hidden in her wardrobe. Now that everything was under control, she had time to reflect on her hopes for the future. Would there be more children sitting around the table in the coming years? She prayed it would be so.

  Vanessa helped Blythe dress the tall pine Christmas tree in the corner of the drawing room. Bright red stockings hung on the fireplace mantel. The house had taken on a festive air as if willing it to be a good Christmas.

  A carriage came down the drive. Moments later, the knocker was sharply rapped.

  “The Earl of Gresham has called, my lady,” Johnson announced.

  Stunned, Vanessa clambered to her feet, holding a colored globe she was about to hang from the tree when the well-dressed man entered the room. He was followed by a footman, his arms full of wrapped gifts.

  “Uncle William, how nice to see you.” Vanessa hurried to kiss his cheek.

  “And you, my dear.”

  She introduced Blythe to her uncle.

  He sent his footman to the kitchen for a hot drink and accepted her offer of a hot cider to warm him.

  “The tree still looks a bit bare, Blythe,” Vanessa said. “Could you ask Mrs. Royce if there’s any more tinsel? And then go to the nursery. I’ll be up directly.”

  Blythe curtsied sweetly and left the room. “A pretty child,” he said, gazing after her. “Her mother was a friend of my wife’s. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But for someone who seemed to have everything—be
auty, wealth, and a devoted husband—she was often restless and unhappy. She only came alive when the center of attention, which she very often was.” He took a sip of cider. “Some beautiful women are like that.”

  Vanessa said nothing, refusing to be drawn. Discussing Clara seemed disloyal.

  “But no one deserves such a horrible death,” her uncle said with a sorrowful shake of his head.

  “I’m not sure of the details.” Vanessa didn’t wish to show her ignorance. Julian hadn’t told her how Clara died. She hadn’t like to ask, but she was curious.

  He raised his sandy brows. “A cart ran into her carriage on a Parisian bridge. It sent her vehicle crashing into the Seine. She and her maid drowned.”

  She felt a swift rush of compassion. What a horrible death. “How dreadful!”

  “Yes, indeed.” He studied her. “You have the Gresham coloring, my dear, but you look like your mother.”

  “Do I? Father never said so.”

  “Your mother was attractive, quite stole his heart.” He frowned. “Made him forget his obligations at the time.”

  She bristled. “He never stopped loving my mother.”

  “I suppose not.” His gaze slid away from hers. “I expect he was right to marry for love.”

  Surprised, Vanessa glanced at him. The earl’s hair was light red like hers but turning gray at the temples. He cradled the mug in his hand and a little shamefaced, began to explain why he’d failed to acknowledge her marriage.

  “You have no need to explain,” Vanessa said. “It’s a long time ago, and circumstances were different.”

  “Kind of you.” He nodded. “I received your letter and one from Lord Falconbridge informing me of your coming nuptials. I was in France when my secretary forwarded me the announcement in the newspaper,” he said. “I then traveled on to America.”

  Vanessa hoped he wasn’t offended that in her letter, she’d failed to invite him to the wedding. “We had very little time before Julian left for South America. It was a small affair, held at the registry office.”