Death Among Rubies (3 page)

As she spoke, amused at her guest’s curiosity, she noted the heavy chain that led to his large gold pocket watch, which he consulted from time to time. Like everything else Mr. Hardiman seemed to own, it was vulgar—and very, very expensive.

His daughter was not discussing farming. Miss Hardiman was engaged in a lively talk with Mrs. Blake’s son, Christopher. A tall, striking girl, she was laughing—a little too loudly—at a funny story Christopher was telling. He had a cheerful, handsome face made for smiling, and clearly enjoyed making the young woman laugh. Once or twice, she gently rested a gloved hand on his arm.

“I do envy you, growing up in this magnificent house,” she said, looking around.

“I actually grew up on a neighboring estate,” he said, “but I was always a favorite of my uncle’s, Sir Calleford, and I spent much of my time here.”

“So your uncle owns it?” she asked, looking at him closely.

“No one really owns a house like the Eyrie,” said Christopher. “The family is merely its caretaker.”

Miss Hardiman wrinkled her nose and said, “But I don’t understand . . . I thought . . .”

“My ancestors have lived here for more than three hundred years.” He waved a hand carelessly and grinned. “But I’m speaking in riddles. Has anyone really shown you this house? I’ll give you a detailed tour tomorrow.”

Miss Hardiman clapped her hands together and said that would be delightful.

“Meanwhile, may I escort you outside to see the moon? It’s particularly fine tonight.”

Across the room, the lord of the manor, Sir Calleford, was speaking in French with M. and Mme. Aubert. The two men were having an animated talk about history, voices rising, but in amusement rather than anger. Sir Calleford said Gibbon’s classic history
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
held the answer to their disagreement, and M. Aubert laughed and said he doubted it. Sir Calleford was threatening to fetch it from his study.

Mme. Aubert became bored and headed over to the two widows, Mrs. Bellinger and Mrs. Sweet. They were usually with each other at gatherings like this. They were single women past their first youth, with little money and no property, so few ever bothered to ask their opinion or try to impress them. But although her English was weak, Mme. Aubert thought stumbling through a discussion of gardens was better than listening to intricacies of Roman history.

Although they were lumped together as “the widows,” they were really not at all alike. Mrs. Bellinger looked like she had been carved out of beautiful marble, with a pair of cool eyes that seemed to look down on everyone. No actress could possibly fake such an aristocratic attitude. Mrs. Sweet, on the other hand, lived up to her name, with cheeks that dimpled when she smiled. Her dress was good, but a fine eye would catch the minor repairs that had been made over time. They both managed to admit Mme. Aubert to their talk—Mrs. Sweet with cheer, Mrs. Bellinger with condescension. The Englishwomen talked about how nice it was outside, and Mme. Aubert agreed, although she had a typical French prejudice against drafts.

Mrs. Blake had to step out of the room periodically to have a few words with the servants, including a reminder to the head housemaid to make sure rooms would be readied for Gwen and her friends, who would be arriving later that night. She’d have to talk to Gwen—it was time the girl settled down, found a suitable husband, and prepared for the day when she would be mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie. Mrs. Blake had no illusions about Gwen’s ability to run a household like the Eyrie, but she would stay and guide her. Hadn’t she made the manor what it was, done what Sir Calleford’s late wife had not been capable of? She took great pride in her work. But it was time to begin reminding Gwen of her future role in life.
Men never think of these things
, she thought ruefully.

She’d sit down privately with Gwen, where they wouldn’t be disturbed. She’d have to get her alone, of course. Get her
away from that rather odd friend of hers, Thomasina. Of course, Gwen was a little odd, too. And Lady Frances Ffolkes as well—between her suffrage work and rumored police involvement, she was making quite a reputation for herself. But Mrs. Blake was confident; she had handled worse than this.

Later, no one could agree on the timetable, who left the drawing room, and when, and for how long. But at some point Mrs. Sweet said she would be heading home and wanted to say good-bye to her host. The last thing anyone remembered was Sir Calleford laughing with M. Aubert, saying he’d prove he was right, and dashing off to his study.

But no one would ever see Sir Calleford alive again.

F
rances strode into the lobby of Miss Plimsoll’s Residence Hotel for Ladies, still feeling light in her step from her “bohemian holiday.” She picked up her letters from the piecrust table where mail was kept for residents and greeted the manageress, Mrs. Beasley.

“Welcome home, Lady Frances. I trust you had a good trip?”

“Very much so, thank you.” She headed up the grand staircase to her suite. Mrs. Beasley had said “welcome home,” and indeed it felt like home. As much as she liked visiting Charles and Mary in the house where she had grown up, this felt like her place now.

Everyone knew about Miss Plimsoll’s. She was the last member of an old family, living in a huge house but finding her money was all gone. She had turned her house into an exclusive residence only for single, well-born women who for one reason or another had no other place to live. Mrs. Beasley guarded the virtue of the residents from a desk by the staircase. At Miss Plimsoll’s, Frances found the same freedom and casual way of life as she had in college in America.

Mallow was sewing in their little sitting room but stood up and smiled when her mistress entered.

“Welcome back, my lady. Did you have a good visit with your friends?”

“Yes, thank you, Mallow. I have a note here from Lady Seaforth saying you did as good a job as Garritty. Considering Garritty has been working as a lady’s maid for far longer than you, that’s a high compliment.”

Mallow reddened a little. “Thank you, my lady. I am glad I was able to be of service.”

“My brother tried to pump you, no doubt,” she said with a smile.

“His lordship asked me several questions about you, my lady, which I was of course unable to answer,” she responded coolly.

“Bless you, Mallow. You’re a gem.”

Her maid had started unpacking Frances’s bag meanwhile, and looked with such disdain on the men’s clothes she had worn that Frances almost wilted.

“You have gotten these somewhat muddy, my lady. I will have them laundered. Unless you are done with them and wish to donate them to the poor box.”

“Oh, thank you, Mallow. These clothes are warm and very comfortable. We’ll be taking them to Kestrel’s Eyrie tonight. A quick sponging should do it; they’re just for outdoor wear anyway, so they don’t need to be perfect.”

“Very good, my lady.” Her tone said it wasn’t very good at all. Frances decided to tweak her.

“If you would like, Mallow, I will buy you similar clothes.”

“Thank you, my lady, but that won’t be necessary.” She said it with great stiffness, and Frances felt bad for teasing her.

“I think we’ll have a good time at the Eyrie, Mallow. It’s an enormous house—a nice change from our little suite here.”

Now that caught Mallow’s interest. “It must have a very large staff, my lady.”

“Oh yes, Mallow. And as you’re lady’s maid to the daughter of a marquess, you’ll have precedence in the servants’ hall.” Mallow preened at that. “We’ll be traveling by train with Miss Kestrel and Miss Calvin.” Mallow knew both of them well from their frequent visits to Miss Plimsoll’s.

“Very good, my lady. I shall be particularly attentive to Miss Kestrel during our trip, since it has been my experience she tends to drop and forget various personal items.”

Frances smiled ruefully. “Yes, Miss Kestrel can be somewhat scatterbrained.”

“I was not criticizing your friend, my lady. My late mother, God rest her soul, used to say the vicar at our church was always losing his spectacles because he was too busy thinking of how to help others, and I expect it’s the same with Miss Kestrel.” Indeed, Gwen was known to empty her purse of an entire week’s allowance into the hands of beggars, or be late for lunch because she stopped to help an overwhelmed nanny on the street soothe the fussing children in her care.

“Mallow, it’s clear you’re not only a fine maid, but a talented diplomat as well.”

“Thank you, my lady. We are mostly packed for this evening. I understand that we will all leave together from Miss Kestrel’s residence?”

“Yes. We’ll dine on the train, arrive late tonight, and be able to start work bright and early tomorrow.”

“Very good, my lady,” said Mallow. She gathered a few final personal items and frowned as she did what she could with the “walking clothes” before folding and packing them as well.

“I hope you’re not too tired, my lady. You were just traveling this morning and we’re leaving again tonight.”

“But it was a most relaxing trip, Mallow. I feel very invigorated.” She gave her maid a sly smile. “Mr. Wheaton was also a guest.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, my lady,” said Mallow, scarcely looking up from her tasks. “I trust he is well.”

“Quite well. It’s just that . . . I know you are concerned, and I want you to know he treats me very well.” Mallow gave Frances the barest hint of a smile.

“I would be deeply disturbed and surprised if he did not, my lady.”

“What do you think of him, Mallow?”

“I’m sure it’s not my place to comment on your ladyship’s friends . . . or suitors,” said Mallow.

“But I’m asking your opinion, Mallow, as I would for a hat or dress.”

Mallow saw the mischief in Lady Frances’s eyes. “I could say then, my lady, that I think that Mr. Wheaton is almost good enough for you.”

Frances laughed. “You really are a diplomat!”

“Thank you, my lady. Now, I packed your green dress. It’s suitable formal for dinners at a great house, and sets off your hair nicely.”

Mallow summoned two hotel maids to help her bring the bags to the lobby, then turned the bags over to a pair of porters to take them directly to the station, making sure they had the correct train.

“Be careful with them. They belong to Lady Frances Ffolkes, the sister of the Marquess of Seaforth. I will be very displeased if these bags are lost or damaged. Very displeased.” The porters were over thirty and Mallow not quite twenty, but her tone and the seriousness of her face wiped away any thoughts they had of merely humoring her. They just touched their caps, said, “Yes, miss,” and moved along.

“And I’ll be checking with the conductor,” she called after them. Then she went back upstairs to get Lady Frances dressed for travel.

Within the hour they were on their way to Gwen Kestrel’s London residence. Some years before, Sir Calleford, caring little for London society, had put Gwen in the charge of an aunt of his late wife’s to sponsor her debut during the “Season”—the spring and early summer in London, where the cream of English society came together for one house party after another. A key goal was arranging marriages for the young people. In that respect, the Season had not been a success for Gwen. But she found London much more to her liking than her father’s country mansion
and stayed on with her great-aunt, making only occasional visits home.

On arrival, a maid showed Frances and Mallow into Gwen’s bedroom, where she was dithering over her packing. Although wealthy, it never occurred to her to engage a lady’s maid, and Tommie was trying, gently, to organize Gwen. Too gently, because little progress was being made.

Frances smiled fondly at the seemingly mismatched pair. Gwen wasn’t much taller than Frances, with a pretty but rather vacant face surrounded by golden curls. Tommie, on the other hand, was taller than average, and although a more confident woman would’ve used that to her advantage, Tommie tended to stoop so as not to stand out. She came from a family of much more modest means than either Gwen or Frances. Her widowed mother was a martyr to her health, and with their few servants run ragged to meet the difficult woman’s demands, no one in the household took time to care for Tommie. She was not anyone’s idea of pretty, but as Frances observed when she looked at Gwen, there was a Madonna-like beauty in her face.

“So glad you’re here, Franny,” said Tommie. “I’m ready, but Gwen is a little behind.”

“Mallow, I think Miss Kestrel could use your help.”

Yes, she could
, thought Mallow.
If Miss Kestrel were left to her own devices, they’d never leave.

Mallow picked appropriate dresses out of Gwen’s closet, as Gwen looked on wide-eyed.

“Now, let’s get you out of your current dress, miss, and into something more suitable.”

“But I like this dress so much,” said Gwen.

“And I will pack it for you. It’s too elaborate for train travel. You will have trouble making yourself comfortable and the wrinkles will be almost impossible to get out.” Ignoring further protests, she began undressing Gwen.

“I already have a hat picked out,” said Gwen tentatively, looking at a magnificent confection well-accented with feathers.

“I will pack it most carefully, miss. But it, too, is unsuitable for train travel. It is too ornate.”

“Yes, Mallow,” said Gwen, meekly.

“It doesn’t pay to argue with Mallow,” said Frances. “She knows these things.”

Mallow had Gwen ready to go in a few minutes, then turned to Tommie. “Now, if you will have a seat, Miss Calvin, I’ll just touch up your hair.”

“That’s quite all right, Mallow—”

But Mallow was already practically pushing Tommie into a chair. The maid’s nimble fingers quickly turned Tommie’s soft brown hair into a neat and fashionable arrangement. Then Mallow replaced Tommie’s hat at an attractive angle.

Mallow turned back to her mistress. “We are ready to go now, my lady.”

Gwen’s great-aunt kept a coach, which took them to the train. Mallow saw the ladies settled on board, then Frances sent her to the dining car to get herself something to eat.

“Was there a particular reason your father wanted to see you now?” Frances asked Gwen.

“It wasn’t Father so much as Aunt Phoebe. Father writes me every week without fail, but never mentions my visiting, except maybe for Christmas. But Aunt Phoebe wrote to say at my age I should take a little more interest in the family estate.” She seemed confused by this, and Tommie laid a gentle hand on hers.

“Your Aunt Phoebe—she’s your father’s sister?” asked Frances.

“No, Phoebe isn’t really an aunt at all, or even a true relation, except by marriage. She was married to Father’s first cousin, Captain Jim Blake. He was great friends with my father, and after he died and mother died, Aunt Phoebe came to run things for him. Her estate was much smaller, and Christopher takes care of things there.”

“Who’s he?”

“Oh, Christopher. He’s Aunt Phoebe’s and Captain Jim’s son. He’s delightful; everyone loves him. When we were children, he
was my best friend, although a few years older. The estates aren’t far and he visited often. He was awfully kind; he let me play his games. But he also loved the Eyrie. Father always said that no one loved the Eyrie more than Christopher did. I always found it too . . . much. I liked Christopher’s house better, actually. It was . . .” she searched for a word.

“Warmer?” suggested Frances.

“Yes, Franny. You always know the right word.” She yawned. “Why do trains make me sleepy?”

“I suspect it’s the rocking motion,” said Tommie. “We’ll be getting in rather late. Take a nap if you like.”

“I think I will.”

Tommie helped Gwen get comfortable, and by the time Mallow returned, she was peacefully sleeping.

“I’ll keep an eye on her, my lady,” said Mallow, who produced her knitting and went to work.

Tommie and Frances made their way to the dining car.

“I’m not very hungry . . . perhaps just some soup,” said Tommie.

“You are having something substantial,” said Frances. “You never eat right.” Her mother’s cook was too busy trying to get the fussy old lady to eat to prepare something for the self-effacing Tommie.

She smiled softly. “You’re right. I’ll have the chicken cutlets and maybe even some dessert.”

“And wine,” said Frances. “You look a little nervous.” Tommie may have been anxious about her first visit to such a great house.

“It’s not the visit—it’s . . . Oh Franny, something so awful happened to me.” Her deep eyes looked so sad, Frances thought she might cry. “I don’t even know if I can talk about it.”

But Frances pressed Tommie, and she related the story of the man in the cathedral.

“But that’s . . . horrible. There can be no excuse for that . . . it’s appalling,” Frances said at last, watching her friend blink back
tears at the memory. “Come, let’s put our heads together and figure this out. Tell me about this man.”

With patient questioning, Frances teased the details from Tommie. It was something she had learned in college: careful exploration yielded results. The man had the clothes and manner of a gentleman and certainly looked English. Was it a London accent? At that, Tommie hesitated. She was a careful, detail-oriented woman, and even in her fear and horror she noticed small things.

“I think so . . . but there was something odd about it, when I think now. Too exact, if it doesn’t sound strange.”

“Perhaps like someone trying to create a London accent. Maybe to hide where he was from?” Frances frowned. That would bear thinking about. “Tommie, have you ever met Sir Calleford?”

She grew wide-eyed at that. “You mean maybe Sir Calleford sent a man to threaten me? I can’t believe that. We met a few times when he came up to London. He was always perfectly polite, if a bit distant.”

“He never seemed upset at your friendship or that you brought Gwen into the suffragist group?”

Tommie shook her head. “That was the saddest thing. He didn’t seem to care what she did, as long as she didn’t embarrass the family.” In fact, Gwen was perfectly happy with the clerical work she did for the suffrage group, and never showed any wish to do any speaking or other public work. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t think he had much interest in his daughter at all.”

That wasn’t a surprise. Wealthy and prominent men like Sir Calleford rarely involved themselves much with daughters, beyond seeing that they were properly married. And Frances had to admit even if he objected to Tommie’s influence on his daughter, he would’ve brought his daughter home to the Eyrie, not sent an agent to threaten Tommie.

“You won’t say anything to Gwen, will you?” asked Tommie.