Death of a Dowager

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “And at his coronation this man is to be named head of the Anglican Church!” said Lucy.

  I had never seen a graver look than the one on Bruce Douglas’s face as he said, “One of my friends, Bootle Wilbraham, is fond of saying that ‘Radicalism has taken the shape of affection for the Queen.’ Caroline’s ‘acquittal’ was greeted by the firing of muskets and cannons in the street. A general roar of approval amidst cheering and hurrahs. The government realizes how close a call the monarchy endured because the Queen’s lawyer, Henry Brougham, had managed to possess a will written by George IV when he was but a prince. In it, our King named Maria Fitzherbert his wife. It has since been destroyed, or so I presume, for the safety of the realm. The populace is already enraged at the King’s extravagant spending while they suffer so much poverty and hunger. To know that he also has committed both adultery and bigamy, when he’s soon to be named the head of the church, would further incense them! There are many who worry that just like our neighbor France, we are poised on the brink of a bloody revolution.”

  “And if Lady Conyngham has her way . . .” I started, but the specter was too frightening.

  “And if the Duke of Cumberland gets his hands on this document . . .” Lucy said.

  “Then rather than parading through Westminster Abbey with a crown on his head, King George IV might lead a march to a guillotine where he and his head part company,” said Waverly.

  Mr. Douglas spoke in a hoarse whisper, “While the rest of the aristocracy find themselves following in His Majesty’s footsteps!”

  Chapter 28

  “Is it possible that Jane was the one who was supposed to die this afternoon? Could the poison have been meant for her so that Lady Conyngham might procure the letter?” Lucy asked. She was leaning her head on one fist and staring into the dying embers of her fire. “Is the Marchioness so vicious?”

  Sounds from the nursery drifted down to us. Directly overhead, Adèle played a game with Rags. While Lucy had been visiting us, Williams had taught Rags to dance on two legs. My children benefited immensely as the French girl dressed the pup in gay ribbons and Ned watched the animal perform like a tame bear.

  I was not afraid of dying. My old friend Helen Burns had shown me how to face the end of my physical life with courage. Ferndean had taught me that life was an endless cycle. But I did want to raise my children to adulthood, to give them a proper start in life, that beginning that they could return to over and over, if only in their minds. Did that letter really put me at risk? And worse, did it endanger the people I loved?

  “Doubtful. It would be stupid to kill Mrs. Rochester before knowing where the letter is,” said Mr. Douglas. As an inquiry agent, he often put his mind to such conundrums, with good result.

  “However, once I knew the Duke of Cumberland was involved, I did become fearful for Mrs. Rochester’s well-being. There are many ways to pry information from an unwilling person. None of them are pleasant. In the event, your reasoning is sound, Mr. Douglas,” said Waverly. “I predict that the Marchioness will demand the letter from Mrs. Rochester. It’s possible she’ll resort to threats, though I cannot tell you what shape those might take. I do fear for Mrs. Fitzherbert’s life, as her removal would make all of this somewhat of a moot point. Without the lady to point to, the problem of the King’s illegal marriage is greatly minimized.”

  While we had been talking, the shadows had shifted, moving the crossbeams of the mullions nearer my feet. The sun was completing another day’s work and fading behind the trees. Slowly the room chilled and became uncomfortably cold. Mr. Douglas stirred the fire with the poker, but most of the coals had long since spent their heat.

  For a while, none of us spoke. Silence is an empty vessel that cries out to be filled with words. But words can—and often do—betray us. Better to hold one’s tongue and let others expose their weaknesses than to rush forward into the fray.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Brayton. I bid you all good evening.” Waverly got to his feet.

  “You cannot go, Mr. Waverly, without telling us where your investigation stands in the matter of Lady Ingram’s death,” said Lucy.

  He turned his empty hands palms upward. “You know everything that I know. At this juncture, I cannot even prove she ingested poison, but the doctor sent a message ’round to me last night. Seems he took the coffeepot back to his clinic. There was a slurry in the bottom, and he thinks he can use scientific methods to determine if there’s poison in it.”

  “Then what?” Edward asked.

  “Then we open an investigation into the murder of Lady Ingram,” Waverly said.

  After the Bow Street Runner left, Edward and Mr. Douglas smoked cigars in the drawing room, while Lucy and I went into the library. Borrowing paper from my hostess, I penned a quick letter to Mrs. Fairfax, requesting a report on John’s condition. I knew that my letter would probably cross a letter of hers in the mail, but I still made the effort. When I was done, I sprinkled blotting sand on the note. After returning the sand to the box, I folded the note, added a wax seal, and set it on a silver tray so Higgins would post it.

  By candlelight it was hard to see to our projects—my drawing and Lucy’s sewing— so my friend lit several oil lamps that cast a cheerful illumination. I continued to fill in around the letters of Evans’s name, adding flowers and insects, vines and leaves. On my lap was an illustrated guide to English gardens, one of the many beautiful books that Augie and Lucy had purchased from Hatchards Bookshop on Piccadilly. I hoped to have my gift done and framed before the boy’s arrival, but the work took much time and patience, as it was easy to spoil by dragging my wrist across the damp ink.

  Meanwhile, Lucy stitched smocking on a tiny shirt. At eight o’clock, Amelia brought the children down to say good night. After dispensing kisses and hugs, I sipped a cup of cocoa. Lucy held up her work for my inspection. “I hope it’s not too small for Evans. Polly helped me shape it. We cut it slightly bigger than what might fit Ned. I would rather that he grow into it than have it not fit.”

  “I am sure it will be fine,” I said, noticing how a tear dripped down her cheek and onto the blue muslin blouse. “What is it? Are you frightened, Lucy? Do you want me to remove the King’s letter from your house?”

  “I wasn’t even thinking about that. I was thinking about what happened today to the Ingram girls, and how sad it is that Evans has also lost his natural mother.”

  “Do you remember yours?” We’d never discussed this. She knew I’d been orphaned at an early age, but I knew very little about Lucy’s youth.

  “I’ll never forget her; she died when I was thirteen and Bruce was eight. Of course, Evans isn’t even nine months old, so he won’t have vivid remembrances of his mother, but still . . . I wonder if he’ll always sense his loss? I imagine he will. No one can replace your mother.”

  “But Lucy, he will have you and you’ll be the world to him.”

  She waved away my comment, causing the wooden spool of thread to roll off her lap and across the floor. “Perhaps. I hope so. I shall certainly do my best, but I am frightened, Jane. What if I can’t take his mother’s place? Since Evans is not my natural child, what if I won’t know how to care for him?”

  Putting my pen aside, I sighed at her. “Look around you. Everywhere you go, you see people. All of them had mothers. Some did a splendid job. Others stumbled along the way. But even so, their children survived. You are applying your mind to matters of the heart, and the fit is poor. I know for certain—and I can say this because I’ve been in Evans’s place—all a child wants is someone to love him! Someone to believe in his or her innately good nature. That is it, simple and straightforward.”

  Her face brightened. “You are right, so right. I guess I am being silly. Thank you for being such a good friend,” Lucy said, giving me a brave smile. “That reminds me. Tomorrow, I shall try to locate a singing teacher for Adèle. Who knows? We mi
ght succeed in turning our dear little cuckoo into a nightingale!”

  Chapter 29

  After all the excitement of the day, I had entirely forgotten to ask Edward how the interview with Lerner had gone. By the time we were alone again, exhaustion claimed us, and we fell fast asleep in each other’s arms. The next morning, after he had dressed and gone downstairs where Higgins would read the paper to him, Lucy stopped in to see me as Polly was braiding my hair. My hostess looked stunning in a morning gown of lavender and a mobcap over her curls. “Off to see the doctor this morning?”

  “Yes.” My voice broke as I thought of what lay ahead. How would Edward cope if the doctor pronounced his case hopeless?

  “Dear friend,” she said, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder. “All will be well. You’ll see. I’ve heard that Mr. Parmenter, the oculist, is thought to be a genius. After your letter sharing Mr. Carter’s recommendation, I asked around, and all whom I have contacted think Parmenter is brilliant. We must have faith, little sister. He’ll have the answers for you.”

  “But what if they are not answers we want to hear?”

  “Then you will stay the course. You and Edward have already weathered the greatest storm, the one that kept you apart, and though it might now be rough sailing, you’ll row together until you’re on the shingle. Right?”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You are a good friend, Lucy.”

  “You are the same to me.”

  After breakfast, Edward and I kissed Ned and Adèle good-bye and set out for our appointment with Mr. Parmenter, the ocular specialist, and Mr. Lerner, his student.

  “Mr. Carter assures me that this man is the best in his field.” A muscle twitched in Edward’s jaw.

  So much hinged on this visit.

  I intended to be cheerful for Edward’s sake, but he had other plans. As Williams slapped the reins against the horses, my husband said, “This might go very badly, Jane. Have you thought about our lives and how they might change if the man says there’s no hope?”

  “There’s always hope, sir. Yes, Mr. Parmenter is an expert, but he’s not the only ocular specialist in all of Europe. If he suggests there’s no . . . no way forward, we will seek another opinion.”

  “And another and another? When would it end, my darling? Now, listen carefully to me. If Parmenter says I’m going to be stone-blind, you must take over more of the day-to-day looking at accounts and ledgers. I have no doubt you are fully capable, but it will take you a reasonable amount of time to learn—”

  “No,” I interrupted. “We will work together. I will continue to read to you and let your input guide my efforts.”

  He sighed heavily. “Dearest Jane, I am trying to be realistic. You must be, too. Yes, of course you can share information with me, and yes, of course, I will respond, but in all honesty, there will come a point where you will understand the bookkeeping and take it over. I am telling you that I trust you implicitly. There’s no need to feel you must check with me on every small decision. For you to do so would sap all your time and energy. Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I married you for your mind and spirit. I am trying to make clear that I have no desire to hang over your shoulder or second-guess your decisions.”

  I understood entirely what he was doing: He was making me the head of our household.

  He was giving up.

  “We will work together,” I said through gritted teeth. “Even if we have to hire a bookkeeper to make reports to both of us.”

  With a loud harrumph, my husband sat back into the carriage seat. “Ah! You are too stubborn for me to quarrel with, especially today. But at least hear me out. I am telling you that you have my total trust and faith. If at any time you need to make a decision because it is timely and prudent, you do not have to wait for my approval. I have complete faith in you and your judgment.”

  For once I was happy that he couldn’t see, because I could brush away my tears in private. Every portion of me wanted to argue with his decision, but I doubted it would do us any good. Edward was trying to make my life easier. In some ways, it would. But it would serve to make me feel more isolated, more separated, and for him to feel cast aside.

  “Tell me what you think of Mr. Lerner,” I said, in a tone that was all too bright for the occasion.

  “I liked him. So did Bruce. Good head on his shoulders. No nonsense. Smart. Determined. Very up-to-date. He meets regularly with his peers to swap ideas about treatment. I believe that Lerner is vigorous and could withstand the rigors of traveling from farm to farm. At least, Bruce seemed to think he could, judging by his looks. How was he in a crisis like you witnessed yesterday?”

  “Kind but firm. He was in a tough spot but did as well as anyone could have given the circumstances. You see, sir, I observed him telling Mary Ingram that he had no designs upon her,” I said.

  “Say what? Are you suggesting he’s a Lothario?” Edward smothered a laugh.

  “Not at all. I think Mary is quite desperate for a husband. From what little I saw and heard—and you must understand that I was eavesdropping while Ned and I were on a park bench and they happened by—she has translated his professional interest into something more personal than it is.”

  “That could cause problems if I agree to bring him on.”

  “Not if he is married,” I said. I wished that Edward could see the twinkle in my eyes.

  “To Mary?”

  “No!” I laughed. “He indicated that he cares for another, a woman named Miriam. Perhaps if he’s given this position, he’ll ask for her hand.”

  “And I have a wife named Cupid!” Edward slapped his knees and threw back his head as he roared with laughter. “Well done, Jane. I certainly would not want to stand in the way of a happy marriage. I shall tell the man the position is his if he wants it.”

  That deserved a kiss, so I gave him one.

  Chapter 30

  The address of the surgery confounded Williams. “It should be here, sir, but all I can see is a passage. It isn’t wide at all. We’re four streets south of Marylebone, just as we are supposed to be. But this should be the place.”

  “Perhaps if I can move in closer to the façade, I’ll discover an entrance. Or where we’ve gone wrong,” I said.

  Williams helped me climb out of the carriage, and then while Edward was stepping out, I walked nearer to the brick-fronted buildings. As the driver had explained, between the two structures was a narrow passage that needed sweeping with a good broom. Beyond the clutter of dead leaves and old newspapers was a door once painted white and now streaked gray with an overlay of coal dust. Nailed to that singularly unwelcoming entrance was a small sign with the words “PARMENTER/3RD FLOOR.”

  It did not seem at all promising, particularly for a man meant to be a renowned oculist, but what other options did we have?

  None.

  I led Edward up the narrow stairs. At the top, a painted sign with one word, “OCULIST,” swung from a set of rusty chains. An arrow pointed us down a hallway to the right. I knocked on the only door. In response there came the sound of footsteps across a wooden floor.

  “Mr. Parmenter?” I asked when the door opened.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, I presume? Mr. Carter wrote me about your case. Do come in. I believe you’ve already met Mr. Lerner? Good, good, good.”

  The man who greeted us had a face as round as a full moon, embraced by overgrown sideburns peppered in white and gray hair. I judged Mr. Parmenter to be in his forties or early fifties. The clothes he wore fit him badly, and his shirt cuffs were threadbare. But his eyes arrested my attention: They were gray as a wet cobblestone but soft as the feathers of a dove, and they seemed to take in every bit of me with great interest. Behind them, I could tell, was a quick-moving mind, with an agility that shone like a candle inside a glass jar.

  The office’s greeting area was Spartan, with three hard-backed chai
rs in a row like Grecian columns. Two very small and poorly done watercolor landscapes failed to brighten the dingy wall.

  “My examination room is this way. Mind the threshold. Step up a bit, please.” The specialist guided my husband with one hand on Edward’s elbow. I followed along behind, blinking rapidly in the bright light. Here the walls had been recently painted with a coat of whitewash. Floor-to-ceiling cabinets with glass fronts displayed an astonishing array of implements, many resembling buttonhooks and crochet tools. On other shelves rested models of the human eye, animal skulls, textbooks with cracked covers, and clear glass jars in which unmoored eyes floated. I found the display both provocative and disgusting.

  Mr. Parmenter led Edward to a simple cot, such as the ones used in our sickroom at Lowood. He encouraged his companion to step forward, saying, “Mrs. Rochester? May I present to you, Mr. Samuel Lerner. He’s spoken to your husband already about working in your county.”

  “At your service, ma’am.” As he bowed, Mr. Lerner’s brow puckered with confusion.

  “We’ve met, although we weren’t introduced properly,” I said. “We passed by each other in Hyde Park yesterday. And Mr. Lerner responded to a crisis yesterday when a patient of his passed away unexpectedly. I happened to be present when it occurred.”

  “Oh my,” said Mr. Parmenter. “Oh my.”

  Mr. Lerner managed to control his mobile features, although a flicker of surprise slipped past. Like my husband, he had eyes of such a dark brown that they appeared to be black. His nose was rather large, but his high cheekbones and generous mouth offset it and balanced out his face, though in response to my reminder of our earlier meetings his face grew concerned.

  “I sincerely hope you have not formulated a bad opinion of me, Mrs. Rochester. Given the circumstances of our encounters.”

  “Why should I?” I asked. I was curious as to how he would respond.