At least she’d shown a little more dignity when they met in the music room. Keeping a suitable distance from Mr. Roberts, she’d somehow managed to disguise her wayward emotions. She hadn’t seen Mr. Roberts this evening and he didn’t appear for dinner. Well, that was a relief!
Determined not to think about the man’s absence, Olivia concentrated on the conversation of Major Lovell to the right, and Mr. Gamage, one of the Dainty’s neighbours, who sat at her left. He was the lesser of the two evils, so full of hunting, shooting, and fishing talk that Olivia found she need only nod occasionally and exclaim, “How fascinating,” to keep the conversation safely on track throughout both the fish course and the dessert.
Major Lovell claimed more attention during the entree. She made the error of mentioning an interest in music, and her father’s profession of music teacher, and as a result was forced to name favourite composers, explain why Chopin included so many impossible notes in his pieces and agree that orchestral music far surpassed the opera in enjoyment. Olivia wouldn’t, however, go so far as to uphold the major’s complaint that it was so dashed hard to hear oneself think while the large lady caterwauled.
She had a soft spot for the Marriage of Figaro and The Magic Flute in particular, so would only nod in silence at this calumny, hardly caring that she must seem stupid or, at the least, bashful. She almost wished Mama were present to witness such unusual discretion.
Unfortunately, Olivia’s lack of enthusiasm served only to pique Major Lovell’s interest. After the ladies had taken tea and the gentlemen had re-joined them, a little redder in the face, their voices a decibel or two raised by the liberal whirl of port around the table, Olivia found all attempts to slip quietly from the room thwarted by the major. He begged her to lean on an arm for a promenade around the room, “in order to hear Miss Martin’s views on Beethoven and Strauss.” As her ankle had improved so well it could hardly serve as an excuse, Olivia had no alternative but to school her features into smiles and accompany the major.
Such self-control was rewarded. When Major Lovell had exhausted his supply of musical knowledge, which took only a few sentences, Olivia was able to bring the conversation around to the army. Mr. Roberts had piqued her curiosity with his refusal to elaborate upon a military past, and she longed to hear details of army life.
“Major Lovell, perhaps you were present at the unfortunate events in Afghanistan?” Her voice was gentle, but the major gave a start of surprise. Olivia bit her lip. Perhaps the recent war was an unsuitable topic for discussion in the drawing room. Still, she wanted to know more about it. Mr. Roberts had been part of the British army.
“War,” said Major Lovell, his voice a little loud, “is a hardship men must suffer in order to protect the ladies.”
She curtsied, hiding a smile. “We’re most grateful for such bravery.”
Major Lovell patted her hand. “It’s a great pleasure to risk our lives for such delightful creatures. Why, when the enemy is upon us, we gain courage from the thought of members of the fair sex, waiting at home for our return.”
“That’s so good to know, Major Lovell.” She felt a little at a loss. This was so different from the way Mr. Roberts mentioned the war. He treated her as though she were a thinking person, with a brain of her own. Where could he be this evening? Surely he hadn’t left Thatcham Hall without bidding her farewell. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought. No, they were partners in investigation. She would know when the enquiries were finished. With a twinge of guilt, Olivia realised she’d not yet undertaken the promised interviews with servants.
Major Lovell was still talking. “My men’s courage depends on good leadership. They know what to do when I give an order and any man who disobeys soon regrets it.”
“I’m sure the men follow you without hesitation.”
“Hmm.” The major cleared his throat. “Once you make an example of one, the others soon fall into line. Why, some young cub had the effrontery to sit on the ground, begging for water. Only had the merest scratch on his leg. That fellow felt the flat of my sword, I can tell you, until he climbed back on the horse.”
Olivia gasped. “The poor man. Did he recover from his wound?”
“What? Oh, yes, must have done. Think I saw him in the final push. Didn’t make it out, of course.” The major stopped. “Here, now, what am I about, frightening a charming young lady with the doings of men. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, my dear. Let us take care of such things. Women, you know, are far better suited to the gentle pleasures of life, safe at the pianoforte or charming us all as you dance the polka.”
Olivia forced a smile. “That’s true. We are the fortunate ones. Mr. Roberts mentioned something about his time in the army that led me to believe it’s a most uncomfortable life.” The major’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t reply.
She tried again. “I believe he was in Afghanistan in ’42?” She hoped curiosity for news of Mr. Roberts wasn’t written too clearly on her face. Would Major Lovell know him? “Did you meet him there?”
“Roberts? Roberts, now.” Major Lovell’s face was a mask. She couldn’t read his emotions. “Can’t say I remember the cove. Junior officer, I take it?”
“A major also, I believe.”
“Well, nobody of that name that I remember.” He patted Olivia’s arm. She gritted her teeth and held back from slapping the flabby hand.
He coughed. “I hope,” he swept a low bow, “I trust I may claim at least one polka with you at the ball?”
“Oh, I’m not sure my ankle will be strong enough for a polka. Perhaps we could decide later?” Olivia swallowed. The major’s expression, blank and forbidding at the mention of Mr. Roberts’ name, was frightening. The man repelled her; such lack of concern for his men! That thin moustache above thick pink lips was quite repulsive.
At last, Miss Dainty approached, catching the end of the conversation. “Oh, Major Lovell, we’re so looking forward to the dance. Aren’t you? It seems so long since the last ball that I’m sure I’ve quite forgot how to dance.”
The major transferred his attention to Lord Thatcham’s sister. “I hope to have the chance to help you remember the steps, Miss Dainty.”
Olivia was able to slip away while her friend begged for stories of the major’s exploits on the hunting field. She glanced round. No one was watching, so she left the room and made her way through the green baize door to the staircase that led down to the servants’ hall. Her stomach contracted with sudden nerves. Was this a bad time to speak to the maids? Certainly, they’d be busy with arrangements for the ball, but there’d be no chance to talk with them tomorrow. It was now or never.
She heard raised voices.
“You take that back!”
“Make me.”
Olivia rounded the corner into the corridor to find Violet, arms akimbo, face thrust close to that of another young girl. The second servant, in the uniform of a scullery maid, was Eliza. Although several degrees below a lady’s maid in the servants’ rank, she grabbed a hunk of Violet’s hair and yanked it, hard.
Violet’s cap slipped sideways, falling on the floor. She shrieked. Eliza pulled again. Violet clawed at the scullery maid’s face, leaving a long mark down one cheek.
Running footsteps heralded Mrs. Rivers’ arrival. Grasping the two servants by an arm each, the housekeeper shook them. Eliza’s cap joined her opponent’s, crumpled on the floor. “Whatever do you think you’re doing?” the housekeeper hissed. “They’ll hear you in the dining room.” She gave the arms another shake. “What will Lady Thatcham think? Look at the two of you. And in front of a guest, as well.”
Violet was suddenly still, eyes wide, though whether with fury or remorse, it was impossible to guess. The other girl sniffled. “She started it.”
Olivia stepped forward. “Mrs. Rivers, I came down to speak to Eliza.” The housekeeper frowned. A small white lie seemed in order. “With Lord Thatcham’s permission.” Olivia’s held two fingers crossed behind her back. She w
asn’t quite telling lies. It was true Lord Thatcham had asked Mr. Roberts to investigate, and Mr. Roberts had asked her to help. That lent some sort of legitimacy. “I see this is a bad time, but the matter is pressing. Perhaps I should take Eliza somewhere quiet, in order for her to calm a little, and tell me what’s wrong.”
Mrs. Rivers frowned. “Lady Thatcham. Lady Thatcham didn’t mention such a thing to me.”
“No, it’s in connection with the trouble at the Hall. Lord Thatcham wishes to keep matters as quiet as possible.”
Lips pursed, Mrs. Rivers glared.
The housekeeper was loyal to her staff. She wouldn’t allow this upstart to question the servants, no matter how they might have disgraced themselves, without knowing why.
Olivia would just have to take Mrs. Rivers into her confidence. “Perhaps I might speak to you first?”
The housekeeper nodded. The two maids, hair and uniforms awry, eyed each other with dislike. Mrs Rivers dropped their arms. “You two get yourselves upstairs and smarten yourselves up. I want you back down here looking respectable in ten minutes, with an explanation for this behaviour.”
The girls crept away, keeping well apart. Mrs. Rivers, arms folded, nodded at Olivia. “Right, now, Miss Martin. This is all very confusing, I am sure. Might I ask why you have business with Eliza?”
Honesty seemed the best policy. “Mrs. Rivers, I know there’s a quarrel between Violet and Eliza, but I have to speak to Eliza about—er…” Mrs Rivers’ eyebrows had almost disappeared into tightly brushed grey hair. Olivia ploughed on. “About a missing hairbrush.”
Mrs. Rivers’ face flushed an ominous red. Olivia hurried on before the housekeeper had a chance to interrupt. “I don’t believe Eliza has been stealing, or, at least, not for her own gain. To be honest, Mrs. Rivers, I have a suspicion that someone is behind this and other thefts. Someone wishes ill on the household and has some sort of a hold over Eliza.”
“What sort of hold could they have over her?” Mrs. Rivers glared, face stony. “Why, she’s only been at the Hall a few weeks.”
That was news to Olivia. “How did she come by the work?”
“I can’t rightly remember. Mrs. Bramble will know. Eliza works in the kitchen, so she’ll have interviewed the child. We could ask her.”
Olivia shook her head. “I think as few people as possible should know what’s happening.”
Mrs. Rivers drew herself up to full height, almost reaching Olivia’s shoulder. “I can assure you that Mrs. Bramble is quite trustworthy.”
“Indeed, I don’t doubt that.” Olivia would not be intimidated. “Mr. Roberts told me to speak to as few people as are necessary to find the truth.”
“Hmm. Well, Mrs. Bramble has a proclivity for gossip, that’s true.” Mrs. Rivers rubbed the point of a sharp chin. “Very well, I’ll accompany you when you speak to Eliza, and we’ll get to the bottom of this tangle.”
Eliza looked very young in a fresh apron and cap, fair hair pinned carefully out of sight, the scratched face the only evidence of this evening’s fight. She wriggled, peering around Mrs. Rivers’ parlour, hands clasped, eyes glittering with tears.
“Well,” said Mrs. Rivers, “tell us about the silver hairbrush.”
The girl turned pale. “Oh, Mrs. Rivers, I never meant no harm,” she blurted. “It’s her in the baker’s what made me do it.”
Olivia jumped. “Eileen Hodges?”
Eliza stifled a sob. “Yes, Miss. She said I had to find a position here and do what I was told, or else she’d…” The girl’s words trailed off into silence.
Mrs. Rivers loomed over the girl, hands on hips. “Or else, she’d what?”
Eliza head shook, tears welling over. “I can’t say, miss, I can’t.”
“Nonsense,” the housekeeper snapped. “If you don’t tell us the truth, you’ll be out of the Hall as fast as you can say Jack Robinson.”
The girl sniffed, wiped her nose on a white sleeve and sobbed, louder. “I can’t tell you,” she wailed. “I just can’t.”
It was clear the girl was determined not to give any secrets away. She was more scared of Eileen Hodges than the housekeeper. What hold could the baker’s daughter have over a scullery maid?
Olivia rose. “Very well. That will do for now. Mrs. Rivers, may I ask you to allow Eliza to remain for a day or so, at least?”
The housekeeper frowned and shook her head. “Well, for a few days, I suppose, while we’re all so busy with the ball.” She glared. “Then, my girl, you’d better have a story to tell, or you’ll be on your way.”
Eliza, too distraught to speak, curtsied, tears pouring messily down her face. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, go away.” Mrs. Rivers threw her hands in the air. Eliza scuttled from the room and disappeared down the passageway.
Olivia, thoughtful, thanked Mrs. Rivers. “I don’t think she’ll take anything else, now she’s been found out. We need to know why she’s so scared of Eileen Hodges. Will you help me?”
Mrs. Rivers straightened a vase on a nearby shelf. “I don’t like this, Miss Martin. I don’t like it at all.” She heaved a sigh. “Oh, very well, I’ll help if I can. What shall I do?”
“Eliza will try to warn Eileen Hodges. She’s really frightened of that girl. Will you let me know if she leaves the Hall?”
“She’ll have no time to walk into the village today or tomorrow, if I have anything to do with it.” Mrs. Rivers’ mouth was set in a grim line. Young Eliza would be efficiently guarded.
Olivia had an idea. “I think we should let her go and see what happens.”
The housekeeper smiled. “Why, Miss Martin. You have a plan?”
Olivia sat again and waved Mrs. Rivers to a nearby chair. “Perhaps.”
Chapter Twenty
Thatcham Hall sparkled in the light of a thousand candles. Chandeliers lit every room, casting their glow into the darkest of corners while complicated arrangements of flowers brightened the passages. Footmen, boots agleam, stood at every turn, ready to offer assistance as the guests assembled.
Nelson had spent the past twenty-four hours in London. Daniel’s rough wooden cross, his widow’s fear, and the rope and feathers at Grandmother’ Caxton’s cottage had combined to set him thinking. There was research to undertake, and in truth he’d been glad to make himself scarce for a while, pleased to avoid the military men at the Hall. In the vast library at his Chambers, he’d found the information he needed. At last, a pattern was forming.
Carriages crunched across the gravel. Chaperones’ headdresses bobbed as mature ladies greeted each other, alert for gossip. Young ladies flicked fans, covering their mouths and peeping from the corners of their eyes at the gentlemen who fingered newly oiled moustaches.
“My lady.” The bustle halted as the Dowager Lady Thatcham, Lord Thatcham’s widowed mother, arrived from the Dower House, escorted by her very old friend and confidante, Lord Ravensholme. Her face froze as she peered at her daughter-in-law, Philomena, the current Lady Thatcham. An almost audible shared sigh, part relief and part disappointment, hung in the air as she smiled and kissed the air close to Philomena’s cheek. That she had tried to prevent the unknown Philomena Taylor from marrying her son was common knowledge. “You are looking well, my dear.”
Miss Dainty descended the stairs delightfully flushed with excitement, neck rising in an elegant arc from the delicate neckline of a rose satin gown. The dress, arranged in tiers that fell from her tiny waist, spread across one of the new wire baskets that the ladies called crinolines. The skirt swayed gracefully as she walked across the room. Nelson wondered how she would fare when attempting to sit.
Her eyes travelled around the room, but Nelson managed to avoid her gaze, slipping behind one of the taller of the pedestal floral arrangements. Miss Dainty was soon engaged in discussion with a group of young men, none of them known to Nelson.
Miss Martin followed her friend, eyes demurely cast down. Her dress, in her favourite green, was simpler, the skirt narrower, but her titian hair blazed
under the chandeliers, as though alive with fire. Nelson wasn’t the only man in the Hall captivated by her appearance. A small queue of officers formed, waiting to scribble their names on her dance card, only to retire disappointed, as she pointed to her ankle. Nelson smiled. She’d promised to sit and watch the dancing. They could compare notes. He had plenty to tell her.
Nelson moistened dry lips and turned away. He wouldn’t make an exhibition of himself by attempting to dance. The Hall was full of officers. Nelson preferred to avoid former colleagues. For the moment. Captain Weston stood close to Miss Martin, talking with animation. She wore a self-contained smile. Nelson was too far away to hear their conversation.
While the musicians tuned their instruments in preparation for the first dance, Nelson wandered into one of the anterooms to join the older men and chaperones at card tables, waiting until Miss Martin should be left alone. A hubbub of chat filled the air, interspersed with calls of “trump” and “no-trump”. An hour passed so slowly that Nelson felt every minute dragged out to twice its length. Several times, he left to watch the dancing; each time, he found Miss Martin at the centre of a group of admirers.
At last, unable to bear it any longer, he slipped outside the hall and walked in the cool of the evening along the west wing. The doors from the ballroom were flung wide open. A few couples had crept outside, either engaged and therefore allowed to spend a few moments together, or, more daringly, stealing a few moments of escape from the eyes of their chaperones. Nelson watched and waited, leaning on one of the ancient walls of the Hall, deep in shadow. The time dragged.
What was that? Someone nearby hooted with laughter. He’d heard that braying voice before. Nelson pushed away from the wall in the corner, mouth dry. Somehow, he’d known this would happen. The Hall had been half full of soldiers for the past couple of days. It had only been a matter of time before the man Nelson hated above all others appeared.
Danger at Thatcham Hall Page 13
