“Were you not able to get your children back, then?” I asked, fascinated despite myself.
“No. First because only my youngest son, William, was then under the age limit; and also because the law only applied to England, Ireland, and Wales. My husband took the boys over the border into Scotland to hide them with distant relatives I didn’t know. I suppose the devil in his pocket made the recommendation.”
Why did it feel so traitorous to feel softhearted at what Caroline Norton had endured? “Have you not seen your children since he took them away?”
I was surprised at the reaction my words engendered, for tears immediately sprang into the eyes of this woman who appeared to have an iron spine. “William had a spill from a horse in ’42. His injuries were minor, but my husband”—she spat the word—“did not have him properly attended to and blood poisoning set in. Realizing the child was near death, George sent for me, but the dear boy died before I could arrive in Scotland.”
Caroline pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes with it. “I have so few female friends with whom to have such conversations. Most of my discussions are on paper or in courtrooms. I actually find it refreshing to discuss my terrible story this way.”
Hardly the way I felt about the conversation, as I was still anxious about her intentions behind the tale.
She patted once more at her tears. “Where was I? Oh yes, after William’s death, George was generous enough to allow me to visit my other two sons, but he retained full custody, and all my visits were supervised. Not that it was practical for me to take regular jaunts to Scotland, anyway.”
I performed a quick mental calculation. “Your sons are well into adulthood now.”
She nodded. “Yes, Thomas married a woman in Naples last year. Fletcher is studying art in Paris. So still I never see them.”
A shadow passed over her countenance, then cleared. “Right now, I am campaigning for more equitable divorce laws. I believe I am very close”—Caroline swept an elegant hand at the unfinished letters on her desk—“and will secure my own divorce from that barbarous creature soon. When I think of the days and nights of tears and anguish, days and nights that became months and years—well, even now the hot agony of resentment and grief rises in my mind. I suffered needless tyranny from this man, who possessed a power over me that nothing could control. If only he could have been tender toward me, or barring that, have been willing to release me from my cage …”
Caroline went to the bookshelf nearest to her desk and plucked a thin volume from the shelf. “I just had this published,” she said, handing it to me.
I read the gilt lettering on the deep-green cover: Caroline Norton’s Defense: English Laws for Women in the Nineteenth Century.
“In it, I discuss the dreadful marriage laws of our country, which make the marriage ceremony a civil bond for him and an indissoluble sacrament for her. The rights of mutual property are made absolute for men and null for women. This must be changed if we are going to be a proper civilized nation.”
Caroline was clearly passionate in her depiction of the state of matrimonial affairs.
I tucked the small book into my dress pocket. This was just what I had feared in a marriage with Richard Monckton Milnes. That, much as he claimed that I would be as free as a sparrow to pursue whatever was my passion or pleasure, I would end up trapped in a prison of my own making.
However, I didn’t want to shift any of the focus of the conversation onto me. My path was settled and straight, other than that poem he had sent for my comment.
“What you have experienced can certainly only be termed a tragedy,” I said in sincere empathy. “But somewhere along the way you met Sidney.”
That brought the first genuine light to her face that I had seen. “Yes. A few years after I had separated from George, a mummy-unrolling party was held to which both Sidney and I were invited. Totally ghoulish to watch the men removing the layers to get down to a desiccated old husk, but there was a dinner and dancing afterward. Sidney and I were partners at a game of whist. He flattered me incessantly on my gown—which was in the most fabulous punch color; no one else had anything like it—and on my skill at cards. And he was unspeakably handsome. I was never sure if I was the sun and he was the planet, or the other way around.”
She was making me feel even more unwanted sympathy for her even as she talked about her infatuation with a man who was not only my friend’s husband but a friend of mine in his own right.
“But today he is the loving husband to his wife and father to—”
But Caroline was caught up in her own fanciful delusions. “Sidney was mine long before Elizabeth à Court came along, and he was pressured into marriage with her.”
“But they are quite happy together. They have three children, and no doubt there will be more.”
“Children are not always a sign of happiness, Miss Nightingale. I had three children of my own, who were used as pawns by my husband. Besides, I know that Sidney still loves me, for his expressions of empathy are so … sincere. And intense.”
“Sidney is certainly a kind man, but he is far from an adulterer. Mrs. Norton, you must abandon this notion.” Suddenly I wished I had a hot cup of tea in my hand to occupy me.
“You don’t understand. If I can see our marital laws changed so that I can secure a divorce from George, then so would Sidney be able to more easily sue his wife for divorce as well, since he could offer assurances that she would not only have her children but that he would be legally bound to support her. My work serves us both. In fact, I have been working on several political treatises on marriage and family.”
“Mrs. Norton, I don’t—”
She interrupted me genially. “Please, you must call me Caroline. We are friends now, are we not?”
“Caroline,” I said, trying to keep my patience. “I don’t think you understand. Sidney is not likely to leave Liz even if you were to—”
She interrupted me yet again, sitting back and contemplating me seriously. “Miss Nightingale, you are an unmarried woman, so I must be very direct with you. Do you have designs on Sidney?”
Now the purpose of the requested visit started to come into focus. “Pardon me? How dare you suggest such a thing.” I was glad I didn’t have the cup of proffered tea, for it may have ended up splattered upon her head.
She bit her lip. Even at her age, it was a graceful, alluring gesture. “I imagine you think me a monster, Miss Nightingale, but assuredly I am naught but a lonely woman. Please forgive me. In fact, I should like to offer you a gift.” Caroline rose, and I followed suit.
“It’s not necessary. Besides, you have already given me your treatise on English law,” I said, patting my dress pocket.
Caroline ignored me, heading over to one of the bookcases and pulling out a much thicker volume than the previous one. “Here,” she said, bringing it to me and placing it in my hands. This cover was burgundy leather.
“Stuart of Dunleath by Caroline Sheridan Norton,” I read aloud.
She nodded happily. “I published this novel three years ago. Please, take it. It will help you to better understand me.”
I left Caroline Norton’s residence deeply conflicted. Clearly the woman had suffered greatly and had channeled that suffering into trying to improve the lot of other people. Did that mean she was more or less likely to make someone suffer if she perceived the person as a threat?
That evening, when all was quiet in the Establishment, I curled up in bed with Stuart of Dunleath. After only a couple of hours of reading, I was more disturbed than ever by what was an exceedingly melodramatic story.
It was set in Scotland, the very place of Caroline’s misery, given that her son had died there. It followed the story of a woman named Eleanor who was of angelic purity. Her beloved was assumed to have drowned, and she married a brutally bad, but wealthy, baronet, Sir Stephen. Eleanor suffered under this violent man, and her twin sons, her sole source of comfort, drowned as well. But her belov
ed, Stuart, reappeared on the scene, alive and well and having gone to America to make his fortune.
Eleanor attempted to obtain a divorce but gave up because of her overwhelming guilt for the passion she had for Stuart. Finally, Sir Stephen let her go, but she died of a broken heart because Stuart had already married a friend of hers.
I closed the book thoughtfully and turned onto my back. I held the novel to my chest with both arms as I contemplated what I had read. Had Caroline penned a thinly veiled autobiography? Was it an artful message to Sidney? I fell asleep without reaching an answer.
CHAPTER 19
I awoke early the next morning with my lamp still burning and the book having tumbled to the floor.
My first order of business was to dress and prepare myself for the day, then to go quietly to my study to spend time some thinking before anyone became aware that I was awake.
With my mind still troubled by Caroline Norton’s sad but sordid story, I sat at my desk and pulled a fresh sheet of hospital stationery from my desk, flipping it over so that the return address did not show.
Normally I would have asked Mary to assist me with organizing information, but this morning I had a great desire to simply erupt upon paper by myself, to make sense of what little I knew about so many different concerns pulling at me.
I had achieved nearly nothing on the Herberts’ great matter, but making myself a list of other achievements made me feel as though I was not a total failure.
Organized Middlesex Hospital for cholera inmates.
Adjusted Reverend Whitehead’s cholera statistics.
Found position for Berenice.
Fulfilled Fenton’s dying wish for Maddox family to be helped.
Assisted Mr. Davies with his war wound.
Advised Sidney on improvements to Scutari Hospital.
My great failures included the tragedy at the Reeve household and the death of Isabel Maddox. I knew logically that neither of these events was truly my fault, but death—whether by disease, accident, or intent—tended to make one want to abandon logic and reason.
I put those deaths from my mind so that I could more fully concentrate on the attack on Liz’s carriage, which had resulted in the murder of Joss Pagg.
I made a chart in an attempt to establish relationships among everyone involved. The General, Caroline Norton, Sidney and Liz, Charles Henry à Court, Alice Nichols, Joss Pagg, George Maddox and his wife, Fenton, and Oswyn Davies.
I was completely dissatisfied. All of these people were either related to one another or servants of the Herbert household, with the exception of Mr. Davies and the Maddoxes.
That wasn’t helpful at all. There must be some unknown person out there who had actually pulled the pistol trigger. Or had paid the attacker.
I made another chart to relate people to their possible motivations.
The General—?
Caroline Norton—elimination of rival for Sidney’s affections.
Alice Nichols—revenge against the General for forcing Charles Henry to marry Miss Currie.
Charles Henry à Court—an unknown grudge against his father?
Oswyn Davies—an attack on the General as revenge for the Disaster in Afghanistan?
I would not, and could not, countenance the idea that Sidney had wanted an attempt made on Liz’s life, nor that Liz was faking something. Both ideas were too ridiculous to be borne.
I made a note at the bottom of this page:
Gambling dice—Fenton, Oswyn Davies, the General.
I drew a heavy box around this. What did those dice mean? Was it possible that they meant nothing? That Fenton was mistaken in whatever he was tracking down? Perhaps Fenton had purchased them from someone for his own use, and in the throes of death was delirious in his rants about the “devil’s dice,” and I was burrowing into an empty rabbit hole with them.
As for delirious rants, I recalled many of the odd statements Isabel Maddox had made. It seemed as though she had perpetually confused her husband with his brother. And as she had died in my arms, she had claimed that she had “not meant to do it.” Do what? But surely she had just been raving in her illness. Could Mrs. Maddox have possibly been involved in anything that had transpired, or was I being fanciful?
As I stared at my charts, though, what was becoming as clear as a Cumbrian lake was that it was quite possibly Liz’s father who had actually been the one meant for a bloody, public death.
Perhaps it was time for another visit to Herbert House, and this time I intended to talk to every single resident of the household.
After making the rounds to check in on the patients, that was exactly what I did.
* * *
I was ushered into Herbert House by a crying servant who quickly showed me through the house and into the rear gardens, where the entire family and most of the servants stood around, looking for all the world like war casualties. None were bleeding, but they wandered aimlessly with expressions of shock blighting their faces. Even the Herbert boys were subdued and quiet.
The only exception to this was Liz, who was crying piteously with no regard for the servants, who were either watching helplessly or avoiding her.
Sidney and the General surrounded Liz. Their mutual distrust of each other prevented them from effectively offering comfort over whatever had Liz and the rest of the household so troubled. Charles Henry stood off to one side near the servants, his skin ashy and his stare blank. I’m not sure he even noticed my presence.
I picked up my skirts and hurried down the wide, curved steps that emptied into the carefully manicured gardens. Cluster-petaled dahlia blossoms, deliciously fragrant freesias, and dramatic, trumpet-shaped amaryllis were all blooming in fall splendor.
“What has happened, my dear?” I asked as I reached Liz. Sidney and the General obligingly parted to permit me access to my friend.
Liz was not hysterical—I couldn’t imagine her being so even if her house were on fire while a flood raged through Belgravia.
She accepted my hug gratefully, clutching me for all she was worth.
“Flo, I can hardly believe it,” she uttered sadly as she stood back from my clasp. “Look.”
She pointed to a nearby bed of dahlias, which exploded in a profusion of lavender, bronze, flame, and snowy white. So spectacular were the colors of the gorgeous stalks that I almost missed it.
Lying among the flowers was the body of Alice Nichols.
I could hardly understand what my eyes beheld. I stepped through a mass of crushed stalks and knelt next to the poor woman’s body. Her limbs were splayed out as though she had been tossed there like an unwanted sack of rotten potatoes.
She wore a different dress than the one I recalled her wearing the day before. This one was a little fancier. Had she been preparing for an assignation, perhaps?
Her eyes stared up at me glassily, and I gently closed them. It required little observation to realize that she had been strangled, with the buttons popped off from around the neck of her dress and the mottled bruising on her skin that had no doubt appeared as her life had been choked from her.
I rose heavily. “Who found her?” I asked.
“’Twas me, miss.” I was approached by Ike Bent, the young coachman I had interviewed. The day of Liz’s attack now seemed like an eternity ago. Unlike everyone else, Ike seemed energized by Nichols’s death, as though his having discovered the body had made him very important.
I supposed that at the moment, it did.
“When did you find Mrs. Nichols?” I asked.
“Just a short while ago, miss. I came out to cut some flowers for the mistress’s carriage. I thought she might like a bit of cheering up, so I was going to wrap up some blooms and put them in her seat for when she went out riding later in the day. That’s when I saw her.” He pointed down toward Nichols’s body without looking at her. “Nobody else noticed ’cept me.”
“Did you notice anything else?” I couldn’t quite ask precise questions out here in front of others. It didn
’t matter anyway, for Ike had no answers.
“No, miss. Just her, when I came to cut the flowers. I made sure to tell the master straightaway. I’m not in trouble, am I?” He had gone from excited to alarmed in mere seconds.
“Of course not,” I assured him quickly. “I just want to help Mr. and Mrs. Herbert figure out who may have wanted to hurt Mrs. Herbert’s maid.”
He nodded. “That’s all right then.”
The boy was utterly without guile, and I rather envied him for it. However, perhaps I needed to talk to the rest of the staff, separately and in private, then move on to what I was sure would be dreadful conversations with Charles Henry and the General.
“Miss Nichols reminds me of Mr. Pagg, doesn’t she?” Ike added.
This stopped me. “Why do you say that?” I asked more sharply than I intended.
The coachman frowned. “Because I found them both. And they was kilt in service to Mr. and Mrs. Herbert. Plus, you showed up right away afterward when they both died.”
These were strange observations. Were they meaningful, or just the ramblings of an innocent? Hadn’t Mary commented on its being my friend who had been attacked when the news first came?
Of course, Joss Pagg had effectively been an innocent bystander, while it seemed to me that Nichols had been intentionally murdered.
A troubling thought in the back of my mind was whether the murderer had mistaken Nichols for Elizabeth Herbert. The maid was clad in nicer clothing, no doubt one of Liz’s castoffs, so it was certainly possible. I chose to keep that idea to myself, especially given how fragile my friend might be right now.
Liz and her family had edged away from where Nichols lay. I walked to where they stood and suggested that I interview the remainder of the household staff.
“Don’t you see what is happening here?” Sidney demanded, his eyes filled with worry. “Whoever it is was unable to get to Liz, and so he attacked her maid. If he cannot murder my wife, he will at least drive her out of her mind! And I wasn’t here when it happened to protect her.”
A Murderous Malady Page 23
