Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  Eileen laughed, the sound echoing coarsely around the parlour. “Do you think I’ll say just so you can tell everyone? Then what will become of me? He’ll kill me, that’s what. I don’t want no accident to happen to me, too!”

  Olivia gasped. “Nonsense. Whatever can you mean?” Did she mean Daniel? His death was an accident, wasn’t it? Shocked, Olivia could only mumble, “Of course the family and—and everyone at the Hall will want to look after you.”

  Olivia’s suspicions grew. Who could it be? Who, from the Hall, could have got this village girl with child if not one of the servants? What did it have to do with Daniel? Did he know something? Something that an unknown person at the hall wanted to keep quiet? Olivia felt sick. She needed to get away, to think.

  Eileen’s lips were pressed tight together. She wouldn’t let Olivia into any more of her secrets.

  Olivia didn’t blame her, when the real villain was—seemed to be—surely could not be—someone who should know far better. She didn’t want to pursue the idea further for the moment. It was too shocking. “You don’t have to tell me, now. Does your mother know? “

  “No. Nor will she if I have anything to do with it. So don’t you go telling on me, miss.”

  Olivia was quite sure Mrs. Hodges knew perfectly well what was wrong with her daughter.

  Eileen glared. “Don’t you dare tell anyone. I don’t know how you got it out of me. I never told no one else. You leave it alone, miss. I-I know what I’m going to do.”

  Was there a threat in the girl’s voice? “Well, it’s your business, I suppose, so if you don’t want me to help, I’ll go. If there’s anything I can do, let me know. I’ll be at the Hall until the ball and then I shall be living at Fairford Manor.”

  Eileen scrubbed her face with a damp apron. “At the Manor? You’re never going to live there.”

  “Indeed, I am. My mother and I are tenants already.” Olivia bit back any further explanation. There was no reason to feed village gossip. She took a step towards the door. “Remember what I said. Come to me if you need help.”

  “Thank you, miss. Thank you for being kind.”

  “It’s nothing. Just you get along to Constable Stephens and explain that James was with you, so he can set the poor man free. If James can’t be trusted, you’re better off without him, but he shouldn’t be punished for something he hasn’t done.” The real punishment should be reserved for another. Olivia dreaded to think who that might be.

  “I reckon he’ll be punished enough when Violet gets her hands on him.” That thought brought a little colour back into Eileen’s cheeks.

  Olivia’s head was spinning as she left the shop, her basket filled with a baker’s dozen of macaroons. What did the girl mean when she said she knew what she was going to do? Would she find a good home for the poor baby? Surely, the only sensible answer to the problem was to tell the truth and marry the father.

  Unless, that is, the father was a married man. Olivia was nibbling her gloves, now. Surely her suspicions were foolish. Everyone knew how happy Lord Thatcham was with Lady Philomena. Why, they were planning a tour of the New World soon after the ball.

  A horrid thought struck. Was there a reason why Lord Thatcham was so keen to leave the Hall? “Nonsense.” Her head full of the dreadful possibilities, Olivia had no idea she’d spoken aloud.

  “What’s nonsense?” Startled, Olivia fumbled the basket. A macaroon fell out and rolled across the cobbles, coming to rest upside down in the mud. Once more, Mr. Roberts loomed, unwelcome, grinning. “What a delightful surprise.”

  Chapter Ten

  Tendrils of hair framed Miss Martin’s face in glorious disorder. Enjoying the guilty flush that stole across her creamy skin, curious about the reason for such confusion, Nelson stepped closer. Long eyelashes brushed ivory cheeks, her gaze fixed on the ground. “Good morning, Miss Martin. I hadn’t expected to see you here so early.”

  Nelson knelt to retrieve the macaroon, flicking it clear of mud, not bothering to suppress a smile. Miss Martin held out a hand but still refused to meet his eyes. “May I examine it, please, Mr. Roberts?”

  He placed the macaroon on the outstretched soft leather with exaggerated care, as though it was a precious stone. “There. I am sorry to say I do not think it can be resurrected.” He spoke with exaggerated solemnity. “Perhaps we should save it for the horses.”

  Nelson bent forward until her face was only inches away, breathing in the fresh tang of citrus soap. He took back the cake, allowing his fingers to graze the glove, watching the tip of her tongue touch her lips.

  Looking up at last, Miss Martin met his gaze. “You are laughing at me, Mr. Roberts, and that is quite unfair, as it is your fault that I dropped it. You startled me, as you have done several times before.”

  He bowed, with mock solemnity. “I must offer my sincere apologies. If there should prove not to be sufficient cake for everyone at tea, I will go without.”

  “Your forbearance is touching.”

  Nelson laughed. “Tell me, though, Miss Martin, why you found it necessary to fetch macaroons from the village. I’m sure Lady Thatcham’s cook will be displeased. I’ve heard that the good Mrs. Bramble takes great pride in her baking.”

  “I felt I should enjoy the walk.” A throaty chuckle took Nelson by surprise. “Macaroons, you know, are extremely difficult to bake with success. I have tried to make them myself and failed most miserably. Although I must confess I am equally unsuccessful with most areas of domestic endeavour. Mama despairs entirely.”

  “Come, Miss Martin, I can see through your flummery. Why not tell the truth? I am quite sure you haven’t come into the village to buy provisions. Lady Thatcham would be horrified to think you were unsatisfied with meals at the Hall.”

  As Nelson searched Miss Martin’s face, her eyes flickered. There was more here than just surprise at their meeting. Something else had brought the warm glow to those cheeks. Perhaps the truth would surprise her into revealing some secret. “I came myself in an attempt to discover whether James, the footman, had been visiting Miss Hodges.”

  Miss Martin gasped. Nelson suppressed a satisfied smile. “I gather you’ve been on a similar mission.”

  “Well.” She shrugged. “Violet, the maid, suggested James may have been here last Tuesday evening, so I thought the simplest way to find out the truth would be to ask Miss Hodges.”

  “Did you indeed? I see we share a preference for the direct approach. Tell me, Miss Martin, did you discover the facts?”

  “Oh yes, but…” Miss Martin bit her lip. Her voice faded. “At least, it’s true that James had come to see Eileen—Miss Hodges—but only to tell her he’s to marry Violet.”

  “I wish him good fortune in explaining that to Violet.”

  Miss Martin smiled, briefly.

  “There’s something else?”

  She crumbled morsels of macaroon, eyes on her fingers, almost as though there was something she didn’t want to tell him. Nelson could be patient. There would be a chance to return to the subject later. He held out an arm. “Let’s go back to the Hall. I have no need to question Miss Hodges further. It’s clear she’s been frank with you.”

  Miss Martin glanced sideways and then away, frowning, avoiding Nelson’s gaze as she took his arm. Nelson resisted the desire to ask further questions. His patience was rewarded. “There is something else,” she said. “Miss Hodges told me something that is private to her, and I don’t believe I should break her confidence.”

  She tilted her face toward Nelson. Flecks of gold sparked in the green eyes. Miss Martin’s nose was long, perhaps just a little too long for beauty, but her skin glowed alabaster smooth. A sudden desire to pull her close, to kiss that soft, half-open mouth and caress that warm cheek almost overwhelmed Nelson.

  Blood pounded in his ears, but he resisted. This was no music hall dancer eager to meet a man’s advances halfway. Miss Martin was a well-bred young lady; all she lacked was a fortune. An unfamiliar emotion held Nelson back. Ten
derness? Compassion?

  Miss Martin didn’t trust him. Perhaps he’d teased a little too much. His fingers itched to smooth away that worried frown. “There’s no need to tell me. At least, not now.”

  Her step faltered. “I would dearly love to tell you the whole story, but I’ve made a promise.”

  She let her arm drop.

  “No matter.” Nelson’s voice was hoarse.

  Another silence fell. All Nelson’s polite small talk deserted him. He could think of nothing to say as they walked, side by side, not touching, until the Hall came in sight. It seemed safest to stay with practicalities. “Perhaps you would relay the news to Violet? I’ll visit the Constable.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.” Miss Martin’s formality matched his own, her voice cool. An invisible barrier divided them.

  Nelson kept his voice even. “Lord Thatcham has asked me to help James. Thanks to you, Miss Martin, I’ll be able to give him good news.” A wave of sadness surprised him. With the task of exonerating James completed, he had no excuse to remain at the Hall. He would have to return to London.

  Olivia stopped walking. “I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled over each other. She seemed near to tears. “I’ve been distracted and rude. I can’t tell you Miss Hodges’ secret. I wish I could, but I’ve given my word. Thank you for your kindness in making no attempt to force a confidence from me.”

  Nelson took hold of her outstretched hand. His heart weighed heavy. “Good day, Miss Martin. I’ve enjoyed our walk today. I may not meet with you again, for I was invited here only to help Lord Thatcham find a way to save James. I shall no doubt be leaving later today.”

  “I’m sorry you’re leaving.” She released his hand and glanced down, regarding the toes of a pair of stout walking boots with interest. “Oh. Wait.”

  “Yes?” His heart lurched. If only she’d look up.

  “I am wondering whether Lord Thatcham may wish you to remain, to discover the truth of the matter. After all, if James didn’t wound the cow, then who did? And then there is…” Her voice faded.

  Nelson’s eyes were transfixed by an inch of soft cheek, all that was visible beyond her bonnet. Was that another blush? “Why, I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps he will. Who knows?”

  Now, he was talking nonsense. He fell silent, bowed and watched Miss Martin walk away. “Olivia Martin,” he murmured, letting the name linger like a secret in the air. “If only we’d met years ago.”

  Nelson’s interview with Lord Thatcham proved Miss Martin correct. “Well done, man. James has an alibi, after all. Lady Thatcham will be delighted. She tells me she hardly dared to give instructions for the ball while the servants were so distraught. You’ve saved the day.”

  “Thank you, sir. I must confess it wasn’t I who discovered James’ whereabouts. It was Miss Martin’s doing.”

  “A lady of many talents, then. I will be sure to thank her. Now, Mr. Roberts, we need to uncover the whole truth of this wretched cow-maiming business. It’s not sufficient to know who didn’t do the deed. Someone must be brought to justice.”

  He handed Nelson a glass of sherry. “Tell me you’ll remain at the Hall for the dance. I find myself hopelessly outnumbered by the ladies at these events and need all the male support I can find. My sister is determined to dance the polka with you, and you’ll do me a great favour if you would keep an eye on her. She can get a little carried away when dancing.”

  The lift of Lord Thatcham’s eyebrow hinted at past adventures. Perhaps such a vivacious sister as Miss Selena Dainty could be a handful for a responsible brother. Nelson stood straighter.

  Could it be that Lord Thatcham was inviting Nelson to woo his sister? It seemed absurd, but this was an unconventional family. Lord Thatcham, who’d married the most unsuitable Philomena Taylor, was the least likely peer in England to care about rank. As the husband of an earl’s sister Nelson would enjoy great wealth and status. The trouble was, any ambition he might have entertained toward Miss Dainty dissolved into thin air at the thought of her friend.

  Nelson bowed. “I’d be delighted, my Lord.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The morning sun shone so brightly into Olivia’s room that she was seized with the desire to enjoy the early morning air. The stones of the Hall glowed warm in the sunshine. The ancient walls reaching toward a blue sky were friendly and inviting. Thatcham Hall had seen centuries of births, of marriages, and of death. Ghosts might walk at night, but by daylight, there was no reason to be nervous.

  A new, sunny day was just the tonic needed after the events of the past few days. It was hard to forget Daniel’s white, dead face as he lay in the stream. Olivia shuddered. She would think of something else. The grounds of Thatcham Hall stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. There was the forest. She turned her back on it. She wouldn’t repeat her visit to Grandmother Caxton today, even though she no longer shivered at the memory of losing her way in the woods. Those fears, foolish and irrational, were no doubt caused by the shock of Daniel’s death.

  She didn’t want to encounter Mr. Roberts, either, this morning. His behaviour yesterday had been odd. Of course, he’d mocked her, in his usual way. Olivia was becoming used to that. As they walked, though, he’d dropped his sarcasm. Why, he’d been almost tender. At one point, his face had seemed very close. Olivia’s cheeks felt hot at the memory. Then, when he spoke of leaving the Hall, an unreasonable panic had gripped Olivia.

  She squared her shoulders and turned down a path to the side of the Hall, lifting her face to enjoy the warmth of the sun. Mama would have scolded, worried about ruining her complexion. Poor Mama. Such a daughter must be a trial.

  Olivia hated Mama’s suggestions for her future. The prospect of marrying any man that would take a young lady without independent means hurt her pride. She wanted neither an old man nor a scoundrel for a husband. Such a life would be worse than a miserable existence as a governess.

  She had one last chance. Could she really persuade the London publisher to publish her music? Mr. Mellow was influential in the music community. He could introduce her to the conductor of the Philharmonic Society, Sir Henry Bishop.

  Her heart turned over. When she returned to the Hall, she’d go straight to the music room. Lady Thatcham had insisted she use it as often as she wished. Olivia had been on the verge of sharing the wonderful dream with her hostess—tempted to enlist Lady Thatcham’s help in the plan to meet Mr. Mellow, but she’d bitten her tongue. It would be wrong to embroil her hostess in a plan to disobey Mama.

  Mama was proud of her daughter’s ability to entertain occasional guests but tutted crossly when Olivia composed her own works. “Your eyes will become red if you spend all day squinting at those little dots,” Mama scolded. “Then you will never find a husband.” As though every girl dreamed only of marriage and children.

  The chapel stood a little apart. Its square tower commanded Olivia’s attention and drew her footsteps down the path beside the Hall. Its bulk blotted out the sun, and its heavy shadow brooded over her.

  She tossed her head and pushed at the solid oak door, fortified with metal bars. It creaked open. Resisting a sudden urge to glance behind, Olivia tiptoed into the nave. The morning sun, streaming through a stained glass window at the eastern end above the altar, bathed the wooden pews in vibrant red, blue and green light. The light was cold. Olivia shivered. This was the Dainty family’s ancient place of worship. Generations had trodden the worn flagstones and knelt on the faded kneelers, installed magnificent glass in the windows and commissioned sculptures to line the walls, but there was no sense of comforting warmth from years of prayer. The chapel’s atmosphere was stark and forbidding.

  Olivia circled the nave, touching her fingers to marble engravings that commemorated the lives of past earls, their wives and children. Bending to peer at fading inscriptions, she read the names of Hughs, Johns, Marys, and Elizabeths. Many of the Daintys memorialized here were children, dead in infancy. Illness, accidents, and po
or nutrition often carried off half the children of a marriage.

  Her eyes filled with tears. Daniel, the farmhand, would soon be buried nearby, but with nothing more than a simple stone in the churchyard as a memorial. Blinking, she bent to examine the carvings in the chapel more closely. Half hidden behind a pillar she found a small stone set into the wall. The carving on the slab of granite was light, barely more than a series of scratches, single lines crossing each other.

  There were other scratches, though. Pictures of a heart, a fish, several stars and flowers, all less than three feet from the flagstones. Olivia smiled. These must be the work of children, bored by long services, scoring the walls with their pocketknives.

  Her teeth chattered. The cold had wormed its way into her bones. It was time to get back into the fresh air, away from the musty smell of mildew.

  As she turned to leave, a flash of light gleamed under one of the pews. What was that? There it was again. Curious, Olivia bent, straining to see into the gloom.

  Just then, a gust of wind whistled through the chapel. A distant door slammed. Olivia started. Had someone come in? No one spoke. She half-turned, but the door remained as solidly in place as before. Still, something had sent that blast of air rushing past. Maybe there was a loose window somewhere.

  She hurried back up the aisle, inspecting the ancient leaded glass along the way. Ah, yes, one pane was loose. That must be it. A sudden change in wind direction had blown through the gap. The door that slammed would be in the vestry at the east end, behind the altar, where the rector kept his vestments.

  Fingertips frozen, feet numb, Olivia wasn’t about to investigate further. There would be time to come back, perhaps with company.

  She left the chapel. The door closed, with a final, triumphant clang. Rubbing stiff hands together until blood returned to the veins, Olivia leaned against the chapel wall, eyes closed. The stone was warm from the sun’s rays. Olivia breathed in the earthy smell of the countryside.

  What was that? Echoes of music; mysterious minor chords and arpeggios, new and strange, unlike any other. A sad melody, weird and unearthly, hung in the air. No one was near. The sound seemed to emanate from the stones themselves.