Death of a Dowager

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Capital,” said Edward. “This should work out splendidly.”

  Chapter 33

  “Pass the tomato and shallot aspic, won’t you? Sister, your Cook does a wonderful job. The trout is perfectly boned. The crust on this bread is—” But Mr. Douglas’s praise was interrupted by the doorbell. He, Lucy, Edward, and I paused while eating our suppers.

  Higgins appeared carrying a silver tray. To all our surprise, he walked right past Lucy and thrust it at me! I took from it a card with a name embossed in gold: Mrs. Tobias Biltmore.

  Mrs. Tobias Biltmore, aka Pansy Biltmore, aka the woman to whom the King had written the coveted love note currently in my possession.

  “Whoever could it be? Imagine, the impertinence to come to my door at this time of night,” said Lucy as she took the card from me so she could read it. “Oh.”

  A world in one little word: Oh.

  Then, realizing that Edward could not read the script, she announced, “Mrs. Tobias Biltmore has come to call.”

  Mr. Douglas choked on his wine. “The one addressed in the King’s love letter?”

  “The same.” I set down my cup. “I can imagine what she’s here about, and waiting won’t improve the situation. I’d best go see what Pansy Biltmore wants.”

  “How about if we give you five minutes and then I interrupt? I wouldn’t want your dinner to get cold.” A sparkle had returned to Lucy’s eyes, and I was glad of it.

  “A perfect plan.” With that, I excused myself and walked to the drawing room, where Higgins had Mrs. Biltmore waiting. Pansy Biltmore was a big woman, with a voice that matched her size. I had seen her once at Alderton House, after the death of her daughter Selina, Adèle’s schoolmate, but we hadn’t been introduced. As I entered the drawing room, she stood and stared at me with an expression of puzzlement on her face. “You are . . . Mrs. Rochester? But . . . I mean . . . I was told you helped a constable capture my daughter’s killer, and you are . . . small.”

  “Yes. I am.” I stayed on my feet, hoping her visit would be a short one.

  We stared at each other, as she took my measure. I did not have to take hers. I knew how Selina had been used to try to elevate the Biltmore family’s status. Instead, the girl had provoked an enemy and been murdered in her bed.

  I knew the family sincerely grieved for their child, but I also knew they had put her squarely in harm’s way.

  “I came for my letters,” Mrs. Biltmore finally said.

  “They have been burned. All save one.”

  She clutched her throat and could barely force out words. “Which one?”

  “I think you can guess.” I kept my eyes on Pansy Biltmore’s face, where I saw myriad emotions pass.

  “That letter is my property. You have no right to it.”

  I nodded. Fortunately, I had given this a great deal of thought and come to a conclusion. “You gave up possession when you handed them to your daughter. And she is dead.” I bit my tongue before adding, “because of your avarice.”

  She paused to take in our surroundings before saying, “Did you know that my husband was to be created a lord? Yes, he would have been Lord Ferris, but he died one week before the title was bestowed. An accident. His horse snapped a leg.”

  “I am sorry. Please accept my sympathy.”

  “Everything I dreamed of, and yet at what cost? I . . . I . . . would now gladly exchange the title for my husband—and my daughter!” Tears streamed down her face. “All I have left are my three sons and they revile me. C-Can you imagine? We need money badly, and they believe I can conjure up the sort of funds they desire! I came to London to plead for help. B-but the King tells me he’s done all he can, all he will, for me. He says he has nothing to spare, and that he is too busy planning his coronation to do more.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “The Marchioness has promised me help. Money. My sons castigate me for having let the letters out of my grasp. None of them have the skills to manage our business. None have any interest in overseeing the tenants on our land. My husband left behind debts I knew nothing of. That letter is worth a great deal of money. To many people. It is also worth much in terms of . . . persuasion. Influence, if you will. The Marchioness assures me—”

  “But you have no idea what she intends to do with the letter, do you?” This I said softly, because now I did feel sad for Pansy Biltmore. This feckless woman would be a small bump in the road, an easy mudhole for the Marchioness to drive a carriage over.

  “The Marchioness assures me—”

  “You trust her?” Lucy’s voice cut through the sniffles of our guest as my friend stepped into the drawing room door. Mrs. Biltmore lifted her head from her hands and faced Lucy.

  “Who are you?”

  “This is Mrs. Captain Brayton, and you are a guest in her house,” I said, as a gentle reminder.

  “Wh-why would I not trust Lady Conyngham?” Mrs. Biltmore asked.

  “Because she is hungry for power. Are you really so silly as to believe that once she gets her hands on this letter she’ll be happy to assist you? Why would she be? Once she possesses this letter, she’ll have no need of you.” Lucy’s tone was scolding, but she spoke the truth, and I was glad of it.

  But Lucy’s words had little effect on Pansy Biltmore, who turned back to me in supplication. “If you know that about her, you must realize you are my only hope, Mrs. Rochester. You will help me, won’t you? Just give me my letter. There are many pages. I shall sell them to her one at a time.”

  Lucy and I exchanged glances. We both knew this would never work. Once Lady Conyngham learned that the woman had retrieved the letter, she would demand that Mrs. Biltmore hand it over to her immediately, in full. This stuttering, crying creature would never be able to resist the Marchioness. Particularly while her own sons put pressure on her.

  “Ladies? A thousand pardons for the interruption.” Mr. Douglas walked into the room and said, “We are waiting for you. Cook has created the most amazing charlotte russe. Will you be much longer?”

  “We are almost finished here. Mrs. Biltmore was just leaving.” Lucy tugged on the bellpull to call Higgins.

  “Mrs. Rochester, I still hope for an answer,” said Mrs. Biltmore.

  “I shall consider it.”

  “I pray you do.”

  Lucy gave the visitor a cool stare. “Higgins will show you out.”

  Chapter 34

  By the time I’d brushed out my hair that night, Edward was already snoring softly. Once again, the events of the day had tired us both—and robbed us of any privacy for sharing our thoughts.

  The next morning, I visited Ned and found him fussy, so I held him while Amelia ran downstairs to get a little brandy to rub on his gums. “Teething, ma’am. Must hurt him like the very dickens,” she said, cheerfully.

  “Pauvre bébé,” cooed Adèle, stroking his fuzzy head. She had taken very well to the role of big sister, lavishing much affection on her “little brother.” This pleased me greatly. But having once been the child’s governess, I thought she should also continue her lessons. Since French was her native language, Adèle needed practice reading in English. I assigned to her the story of St. Jerome from A Child’s Book of Martyrs, saying that Adèle and I would discuss it later in the day, after Lucy and I made our calls. I suspected that our hostess would want to call on her friend, Lady Grainger, and see how the woman was doing. “And if you are good, I might have a surprise for you,” I said. She loved wearing my new headpiece with ostrich feathers, and such an opportunity would make a fine reward for the child.

  “Why don’t you read to Ned?” I suggested. “Amelia? Please encourage Adèle to read to him, won’t you?”

  “Aye, ma’am.” But then the nursemaid blushed. “I can’t help her with the hard words though. I didn’t get much schooling myself.”

  Edward and I both believed in the power of education
. After we secured the employment of a doctor for our tenants, we needed to turn our attention to better schools.

  But little of that could be done from London.

  The hall clock chimed, announcing five minutes until breakfast. I kissed both children and left them in good hands. I was on my way to the dining room when Higgins intercepted me.

  “A letter for you, ma’am.” The butler held out a silver tray.

  I thanked him and read it quickly. As I suspected, the highly efficient Mrs. Fairfax was reporting on John’s condition. It seemed that Mrs. Pendragon was using a variety of herbs to control John’s pain. A slight fever had ensued, but that had been quickly quelled. All in all, a good report, even though it was clear that progress would be slow. Edward would be pleased to hear this.

  As for Ferndean, Mr. Farrell had finished his inspection and ordered supplies. The supporting beams had rotted through. He suspected he would find more of the same in the other parts of the manor, so Mrs. Fairfax had instructed him to do whatever was necessary to bring the hunting cottage back into repair. I agreed with her decision, and I would write to applaud her choices. But these efforts would take time—and when she noted that the weather had turned rainy and the lane nearly impassable due to mud, I under-stood her underlying concern. None of this would be done quickly.

  No, Ferndean would remain uninhabitable until fall at the earliest.

  I tucked the letter into my pocket and stared out at the trees lining Grosvenor Square, trees with leaves that had turned from delicate green to a hearty, deeper color in a few short days. I could see no help for it: We would have to stay in London through the summer. Really, it wouldn’t be so bad. We could enjoy our time together.

  Staying here in town would offer us a myriad of benefits. Not the least of which was Lucy’s company—and a chance for our young families to establish close connections. Someday Adèle, Ned, and Evans would look back on this time and see it as the opportunity they had to build strong firmaments for friendship.

  Time in London would give Edward’s vision its best chance for improvement. He would take full advantage of Lerner’s constant care and Parmenter’s oversight. Such a stay would also accelerate the friendship I saw developing between Edward and Bruce Douglas. Though Edward had long known Mr. Douglas as his friend Augie’s brother-in-law, the two men had never had much opportunity to interact. But this curious set of circumstances had given them good reason to spend time together—and I could hear in their voices how comfortable they were becoming with each other.

  A stay here with Lucy would give me the chance to repay her friendship by supporting her as she took on a new role as mother. I had no doubt she would succeed splendidly, but I could not dismiss her worries. For someone who had waited a lifetime to be a mother, this was a dream come true. And when dreams come true, the fear of disappointment grows apace. I could help her through this. I could lend her my confidence until she could nurture her own.

  As for myself, I would be resolute. I knew full well that I would never relish my time in London—the noise, the crowds, the rules of conduct, the dirt, and the lack of contact with nature combined to make city living incompatible with my soul—but I also knew that I could bear up under this. I simply needed to make a plan.

  Walks in the park would give me the solitude I craved and put me in touch with the out-of-doors. Books from Hatchards would provide me an escape from the press of daily life among so many people. Working with my pen and watercolors would feed my creative self. And I would remember each day that my family was happy here.

  Yes, I would be fine. Really, I would.

  With that decided, I went and joined my husband for breakfast.

  Our hostess had decided to sleep late. Bruce Douglas had arisen early and eaten at the club, so he sent ’round a note requesting Edward’s company after we ate. Mr. Douglas had also suggested that the men drop into the Bow Street station and see how Mr. Waverly intended to proceed with his investigation.

  “I think it wise to stay on top of this,” said Edward, as he bit off a piece of blood sausage. “Mary Ingram’s accusation of Mr. Lerner is but an early salvo, and more shots over the bow may follow. Tell me, darling girl, whom do you suspect is responsible for poisoning Lady Ingram?”

  I’d been thinking about this, and I found no satisfactory answer. I took a piece of toast from Lucy’s silver rack and formed my words carefully. “It is also possible that the poisoning was an accident. Perhaps something was spilled into the coffee whilst it was being stored. Anything could have happened before we arrived.”

  “But you don’t suspect any one person from your gathering? Could Lady Grainger have grown weary of Lady Ingram? Ten years of paying for Blanche’s finery would drive anyone to distraction. Perhaps she figured that if she killed her sister-in-law, Blanche would have no choice but to commit to a husband.” Edward finished his sausage and started on his poached egg.

  I couldn’t imagine that. As I swirled the jam across my bread, I said, “If that were the case, Lady Grainger planned her crime rather poorly. You see, it was Blanche’s coffee, and she only offered it to her mother because Mary was slow in finding the rose hips. No, I can’t believe that Lady Grainger would poison her own sister-in-law—and if that had been her goal, I doubt she would have left so much to chance.”

  “Could either Blanche or Mary have done it?” Edward wondered.

  “Why? Neither of them benefits from her mother’s death. Blanche was her mother’s darling, and Mary hoped to win her mother’s affections. If this is a puzzle, how does poisoning Lady Ingram fit into the frame?”

  “Then it must be a servant.”

  I concurred. “That’s the only answer that makes sense. Polly is friendly with Lady Grainger’s abigail, and she had heard how Lady Ingram and her daughters treated Lady Grainger’s servants horribly—and from what I saw and heard they were at wits’ end with the visitors. Furthermore, any servant in the house would have had access to the coffee tin . . .” I paused. “Except that dosing the coffee would have killed Blanche, not her mother. So why not simply target Lady Ingram?”

  “Ah, but you of all people know full well how cruel Blanche Ingram could be,” said Edward. “Maybe that was the intention—to kill Blanche—and the effort went astray. After all, it was a random act that caused her to share with her mother.”

  “Perhaps.” I still wasn’t convinced. “But why didn’t Blanche suffer as well then? She drank the coffee along with her mother, and the only ill effect she took was a fainting spell, which I suspect to have been only manufactured drama.”

  “Well, at least Waverly is on the case,” said Edward as he sipped his cup of tea. “But I can assure you that Blanche won’t let this go. In fact, she’s probably more determined than Mary to see someone hang for this. I had long ago concluded that Blanche has one aim in life, and one aim only, and that is to amass all the attention she can. Love does not enter into her calculations. Indeed, I doubt that she possesses what is commonly called ‘a heart.’ She’s the sort of grasping harpy who milks any opportunity for unwarranted attention, as we know all too well because she’s still causing trouble in the county about our marriage. She can use this tragedy to good advantage in drumming up sympathy for herself.”

  He paused. “Do you intend to return to the Grainger house today?”

  “I am sure that Lucy will want to check on her friend. It’s been two days now.”

  “Nevertheless, have a care, Jane, and be prudent. If Blanche Ingram was the target, another attempt on her life might be in the offing.”

  “At the very least, I’ll avoid drinking the coffee.”

  “Good thinking, dear girl. Good thinking.”

  I leaned over and kissed my husband on the cheek. “Now let me read to you the letter that just came from Mrs. Fairfax . . .”

  Chapter 35

  As I had predicted, later that morning Lucy sugge
sted that we visit Lady Grainger. We talked as she sat at her desk in the library, sorting through her mail. “I want to see how she is doing and console her regarding the loss of her dog. I can’t help but worry over her. She’s bound to be distraught over the death of her sister-in-law. I don’t know about you, but that image of Lady Ingram sprawled on the carpet is one I won’t soon forget. And yet, like Edward, I am relieved that she can no longer blacken my name or yours.”

  I told my friend about Mr. Lerner’s visit and his report on the coffee.

  “So it was murder!” Lucy’s eyes flew open wide. “Well, that changes things somewhat! Tell me, who do you think is the culprit? I can’t imagine Olivia doing something so dastardly.”

  “Nor can I,” I replied, and I explained how Miss Mary had written a letter blaming Mr. Lerner. “Of course, that is nonsense. The logistics are impossible, and he would never have confirmed to Mr. Waverly that the coffee caused Lady Ingram’s death if he were responsible. He’s far too smart for that. No, Miss Mary was provoked because he spurned her affection.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Lucy groaned. “Poor dear Olivia. Despite the fact that her late husband was a cad, she honored his wishes by taking his family as her own. Look what trouble it has brought her! If only Lady Ingram had insisted that Blanche marry someone.”

  “But Lucy.” I tapped her on the shoulder. “I married for love. You did, too. Perhaps we are being too coldhearted.”

  Lucy sighed and looked at me. Her eyes were a soft blue as she thought this over. “I suppose. I knew from the moment I met Augie that we were meant for each other. Not every woman is so lucky. However, it seems to me that Blanche has merely made sport of men’s affections. That is not the same as looking for the right person to marry.”

  “Whatever her motives were, her status certainly won’t change for a while now. She can’t marry until deep mourning is over, can she? How long is that? Edward thought three months.”