"There is a lady's maid with a cracked skull who might disagree," I commented dryly.
Charlotte shrugged. "A cornered animal fights, and as you observed, my lady, I have an animal's instinct for survival. It was not long before Brisbane appeared, trailing me like a hound. I visited Edwin in prison. I told him I was frightened, but he only laughed. He told me to be bold, that I must throw myself into Brisbane's path to divert suspicion. In the meanwhile, I would plot my escape from England, and establish myself abroad when it was safe to move. I would sell the diamond and buy land, acres and acres of it where we would be our own lords of the manor. The charges against Edwin will be difficult to prove. He will be released in a matter of months and we will be together."
"But without the Tear," I reminded her. "Your things have been searched." Even as I said it, I realised she might well have hidden the jewel anywhere in the Abbey, along with my pearls. But she could not hope to recover them.
She gave me a lazy smile. "Then I will go without it. I will make a future for myself and for Edwin." There was something I did not like in her manner, some smugness that she was unable to conceal.
"And my pearls?"
"Have not left the Abbey. I leave you to find them since you love a good mystery," she said, slanting me a challenging look.
My tolerance for her was moving rapidly into hatred. "And my dog? I suppose you were the one who poisoned her?"
Charlotte's eyes widened in mock horror. "My lady, you shock me. I would never poison a dog. I merely drugged her with a tasty bit of venison soaked in a drop of Cook's laudanum. I discovered it when I was stirring up the Christmas puddings, and I thought it might be useful."
There seemed nothing else to say. She had admitted to her crimes, but without either the jewels or the authority to hold her, I was powerless. She gave me a fond smile.
"I have actually quite enjoyed myself, you know," she told me. She stretched, lissome as a cat. "I shall be sorry to leave Bellmont Abbey."
"Do forgive me if I say that we shall not be sorry to see you go," I returned.
I left her then, her laughter echoing in my ears.
* * *
When I moved into the nave, I was astonished to find Sir Cedric there with Emma and Lucy, dressed in travelling clothes and surrounded by their baggage. Sir Cedric was quite purple in the face and yelling at Aquinas.
"Sir Cedric, contain yourself," I said crisply. "There is no call for that sort of behaviour. Now, what is the trouble?"
Sir Cedric was sputtering too much to speak, so Aquinas stepped in. "Sir Cedric and his party wish to leave and have requested a carriage and baggage wagon to take them to the station in Blessingstoke. I have had no instructions from his lordship on the matter, and I am uncertain of his wishes."
I looked at the little trio of travellers. Sir Cedric had lapsed into furious muttering under his breath. Lucy and Emma stood a little apart, Lucy biting at her lip while Emma stood so straight I thought her back would snap from the strain of it. Their faces were white and nervous, and I pitied them thoroughly.
"Aquinas, order the conveyances." Father had taken the coachman to London, but Whittle, the gardener, was a fair hand at the whip when necessary, and one of the footmen could manage a baggage wagon as far as Blessingstoke.
Aquinas bowed and withdrew to make arrangements. Sir Cedric pulled his greatcoat tighter about his girth, his expression almost, but not quite, mollified. Lucy shot me a look of pure gratitude before sinking down to sit on one of Cedric's trunks. Emma laid a hand on her shoulder, and it occurred to me then she would also have to tread on eggshells if she hoped to stay in her future brother-in-law's good graces.
"Sir Cedric, I presume you are returning to town? Father must give your direction to Scotland Yard. They will want to speak with you about this business with Mr. Ludlow."
"Do not speak his name to me," he thundered, his face purpling again. "No, I do not mean to return to town. We leave for Southampton. I mean to be aboard ship tonight."
It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying. "You are leaving the country? Tonight? But Mr. Ludlow will need you. He must present a defence to the charges of willful murder, as well as the attack against Emma and Lucy. Statements must be given, and references to his character. I grant they will not weigh heavily as he has confessed, but you must help him."
"Must I?" His tawny lion's eyes narrowed to something small and mean. "He has disgraced himself, and me by association. I do not mean to stay here whilst I am made sport of by the newspapers. He will be tried for the murder. To have the attack upon Lucy and Emma made public would be unacceptable. We leave for India tonight. Lucy and I will be married on board the ship, and we will remain in India until this is all quite finished."
"You mean until Henry hangs for what he did?" I asked brutally.
Sir Cedric looked at me appraisingly. "I was quite right about you. You need a husband. Someone with a firm hand to keep you in line. You are far too forward and mannish."
I inclined my head graciously. "How kind of you to notice. In that case, permit me to wish you as pleasant a journey as you deserve."
I exchanged pecks on the cheek with Emma and Lucy. Emma was in complete command of herself, although her manner seemed brittle, as if her nerves were stretched taut as a bowstring. I did not envy her future in Sir Cedric's employ.
"Thank you, dearest Julia," she murmured into my ear. "You helped to save my darling girl, and I cannot ever repay such a debt."
She squeezed my hand and turned away, blinking furiously. Lucy was inclined to cling. Her lips were bleeding a little where she had chewed them, and her nails were bitten to the quick. Eventually, I detached her from my neck and patted her arm. I took my leave then, but as I mounted the stairs I took one last look over my shoulder. Sir Cedric was fussing over some imaginary scuff Lucy had left on his bag. Lucy was on her knees, buffing at it. And behind them stood Emma, her expression blank as a marionette's as she watched them both.
I met Portia at the top of the stairs and quickly related the news that Cedric was leaving his cousin to the mercy of the law, without recourse to money or influence to help his defence.
"I never liked him," Portia said stoutly. "I wonder if Lucy knows what she is doing?"
I tipped my head thoughtfully. "I think she begins to see it, and to worry. But it is too late. If she puts a foot on the deck of that ship, she has as good as married him. What is that you are carrying?"
Portia unrolled the bundle of white linen. "A ghost," she told me, pointing to the two charred spots where the holes for eyes had been burnt. "The maid found it in the linen cupboard this morning. Christopher Sly has decided at last to admit people to her nursery."
I held it up, touching the blackened holes lightly. "But I thought Charlotte was our only ghost," I murmured.
Portia shrugged. "I could not care less, my heart. I only know I have to explain to Aunt Hermia why one of Grandmama's prized sheets from France is ruined." She put a finger through the hole and waggled it at me. "I do not suppose you would like to break the news?"
I took the sheet and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I would be happy to do it."
Portia peered at me. "Are you starting a fever? You are unnaturally decent this morning."
I smiled at her, thinking of Lucy and Emma and the lives they would lead. "I am merely exceedingly grateful that we are ladies of independent fortune," I told her. And I left her, staring after me in puzzlement.
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
—A Midsummer Night's Dream
After I left Charlotte, I had no desire for company. But I still carried Plum's sketchbook, and I knew he would want it back. A page had come askew when it fell, its corner poking out from between the thin morocco covers. I opened the book to put it to rights, and suddenly realised the page was not part of the sketchbook at all. In fact, it was not even a page. It was the corner of an envelope, a thick, creamy enve
lope stamped several times over with Italian postmarks. There was a letter inside, written in formal Italian and penned in a thin, ornately spidery script. The paper bore the cipher of the Palazzo Fornacci in Florence.
For what I did next, I do not apologise. Too many secrets had been kept in our house already. I went straight to Father's study, closing the door softly behind me. Grim quorked at me from his cage and I let him out. With a whirr of black wings, he came to settle himself on Father's desk, watching me with great interest. I took the letter from Plum's book and retrieved Father's Italian dictionary. It was slow going. My command of the written language was poor, and for all the purity of the Florentine dialect, the letter was liberally sprinkled with colloquialisms I could only guess at.
When I had at last deciphered it, I sat back in Father's chair, musing.
"Sweeties," Grim demanded, bobbing his glossy dark head at me. I gave him a pat and tossed him a sweetmeat. He devoured it happily, then toddled across the desk, looking for more.
"No, you shall get fat," I scolded him, pushing the box out of reach. He cocked his head at me, then lowered his beak and began to peck at Plum's sketchbook.
"Don't do that, Grim." But ravens are somewhat less obedient than dogs, and he did not listen. He worried at the cover until he managed to open it.
"That is quite enough," I told him, pulling the book onto my lap. He gave me an irritable quork and withdrew to his cage, turning his back to me.
"You needn't sulk," I began, but then my eyes fell to the open book. Something about the image Plum had sketched there caught my attention. I ruffled through the rest of the book. There were a few sketches of me, one of Charlotte, an assortment of Italian signorinas, and one form in particular, rendered in a variety of poses. He had caught her unawares, it seems, for most of the sketches were of her profile, sometimes laughing, once in tears. But for one sketch, she must have sat for him. She looked out from the page, her expression at once both apologetic and triumphant.
I snapped the book closed, sorry I had seen it. But now that I had, those few lines of charcoal had changed everything.
I went directly to Plum's room. He called irritably for me to enter when I knocked. He was sitting in the window embrasure, looking out at the melting snows, scratching at the glass with a fingernail. He glanced up when I entered, then turned back to the window.
"If you've come to call me a fool, be content. I've done it a hundred times. I understand she stole your pearls?"
I crossed the room and levered myself up into the embrasure to sit next to him. It was cool there, and I wrapped my skirts about my legs as I gathered them under me.
"Apparently, she did. But she will not say where she has them hid, and the Abbey is simply too massive to search. She cannot leave with them, and I am sure they will turn up one day."
He rested his head on the stone wall behind him, one hand draped over his knee, the fingertips smudged softly black with charcoal. "I ought to have known better. I ought to have behaved better. It was bad form to dally with Brisbane's fiancée, even if the engagement was a sham."
I shrugged. "We are all of us stupid at times. Perfection is dull, my love." I brandished the sketchbook. "You dropped this outside the drawing room. I thought you might go looking for it."
I laid it on the bit of window seat between us. He made no move to touch it but simply looked at me, his eyes half-lidded in pain.
"I suppose you looked through it."
I nodded slowly. "I did. And I'm sorry. Perhaps that is why you behaved so badly with Charlotte. Because you cannot have her."
He made a little sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. "No. And now that she carries my brother's child, I never will."
He thumped a fist against the windowpane, the glass shuddering lightly under his hand.
"Plum, you would never have had her in any case. She loves Lysander. She married him," I said, my voice low and soothing.
He looked at me with something like pity. "You still do not understand. I saw her first, I loved her first."
I blinked at him. "But how? Lysander came back to Florence already married to her."
Plum stared out at the winter landscape, but I knew he was seeing another place and another time. "It was last summer. Lysander and I were in Rome, awaiting your arrival. We went to a church, something about a new organ Lysander wished to hear. She was there, just across the aisle, her head draped in a veil of Venetian lace. I saw only her profile, but it was enough. I sat and listened to the music and worshipped her for an hour. And when it was done, Lysander simply rose and left, complaining about the organist's sense of timing. He never sensed her, never realised that she was there, like a goddess stepped from Olympus to grace mere mortals with a glance."
I suppressed a sigh. It was very like Plum to romanticise his feelings for Violante, and I knew it would be fatal to remind him that she was simply a pretty girl with lovely eyes and indigestion.
He went on, dreamily. "You cannot imagine what a shock it was to me when Lysander brought her into the room that first night and made his announcement. I have taken a wife, Plum. Come and kiss your sister. And I had to press my lips for the first and only time to that alabaster cheek, knowing she would never be mine." He roused then, smiling from faraway. "Lysander has always been generous with me. Anything I admired, he gave me freely. But she is the only thing of his I have ever envied, and the only thing I cannot have."
"And that is why you have been beastly to him? And cold to Violante? This is what was behind that ludicrous display in the billiard room when you punched him on the nose, is it not?"
"Julia, you do not know. You cannot imagine the torment—"
"Eglamour Tarquin Deiphobus March, don't you dare tell me what I do not know," I began, rising from my perch. "I know a very great deal about eating your own heart out over someone you cannot have. And do you know what I have learned? It is pathetic and sad. You are a strong, healthy, passably handsome man with a reasonably good intellect, if you would care to use it, and a talent for drawing that Michelangelo himself would have approved. And what do you do with all those virtues? You flirt with betrothed women and moon about over your own sister-in-law. You are maudlin and sentimental, and it is high time you took a rather hard look at yourself and realised you are in danger of becoming ridiculous."
He gaped at me, open-mouthed. He did not even attempt to speak.
"Now, I am about to go and bruise the heart of your friend. If you can have a care for anyone other than yourself, you should make preparations to take him back to Italy. It would be the best thing for the both of you. Alessandro can get on with the business of his life, and you can do something with yourself."
He slumped against the window, his brows drawn together. "Like what?"
I spread my hands. "Restore a church. Learn to quarry marble in Carrara. Go to Greece and build boats. Only for heaven's sake, do not let this destroy you. You love her now, but in a year or two, when she has had a child and grown fat and content, you will not. You will have replaced the memory of her with a hundred more precious. But you must try."
For a long moment he did not move. Then, by way of reply, he held the sketchbook out to me. "Burn it."
I took it from him, noting how his fingers trailed over the cover as if to memorise the pages that lay beneath.
"Are you quite certain?"
He nodded. "You are right, of course. I must cut her out, painful as that may be. And who knows, perhaps something else may grow there."
"And what of Alessandro's letter?" I ventured.
He gave a tiny smile. "You were thorough. I ought to give that back to him. He wanted me to read it, to advise him how best to handle his father. A moot point now, if you mean to send him away."
I shrugged. "It is better this way. For everyone." I handed him the letter and took the book away with me. He had been brave enough to ask me to burn it. I was not cruel enough to make him watch.
* * *
After I had burne
d the sketchbook, waiting until it fell to thin, grey ash, I retrieved a Kashmir shawl from my room and went in search of Alessandro. I finally ran him to ground in the library, gamely working his way through Pride and Prejudice. He sprang to his feet when I entered, smiling broadly.
I nodded to the book. "How are you enjoying Jane Austen?"
He waggled his hand from side to side. "She is a little silly, I think."
Now I was more certain than ever of my decision. I could not love a man who did not love Jane Austen. "The great Duke of Wellington thought her the greatest literary talent in all of England."
He smiled politely. "Perhaps she improves upon second reading."
"Hmm. Perhaps. I wanted to speak with you."
His smile froze, his lips suddenly quite stiff. He swallowed hard and laid down the book. "You are refusing me."
I put out my hand to him and he took it. His was warm and firm in mine. "I am. Walk with me in the courtyard and I will try to explain."
It was characteristic of his youth that he did so. An older man would have armoured himself in his pride and refused an explanation. Only the young have such a gift for self-torture.
We moved out into the courtyard arm in arm. The sunshine, after days of mournful grey, was a revelation. The warmer air had melted off most of the snow and what remained was slowly dripping away against the stone. It was cold to be sure, but nothing like what it had been, and I stopped to raise my face to the sun.
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