Death at Whitechapel (3 page)

“I doubt it,” Kate said, with a laugh that was half a sigh. “I could give in to your mother's demands from now until the Resurrection, but that wouldn't alter the fact that my mother was Irish.”

Charles chuckled. “Mama can think as she likes,” he replied, still behind the newspaper. “It won't alter the fact that I love you—American, Irish, whatever you are.”

“And I you, my dear,” Kate said softly, “all that you are.” Her husband rarely spoke of his feelings, and she treasured the moments when he opened his heart.

She sat back and opened her book but her glance lingered on the fire instead of the page. When she fell in love with Charles, she had been twenty-seven and a spinster, accustomed to living her own life and earning her own living. Her inheritance of her aunts' estate and manor house had strengthened her independence, as had the financial and literary success of the stories she wrote under the pen name of Beryl Bardwell. Whether it was her Irish blood, or her upbringing in a New York City working-class family, or the financial freedom she had gained with her pen, Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan was her own woman, and her mother-in-law, the dowager Lady Somersworth, could not forgive her for it.

For a time, Lady Somersworth's stern disapproval had made Kate unhappy, for she had hoped to be close to Charles's mother. In the last eighteen months, though, this difficulty had been overshadowed by another: her loss of the child she carried and the doctor's announcement that she could never again conceive. Now, even that darkness was fading, for Charles had made it clear that he did not long for a child, that he was quite content that their marriage be exactly as it was. Anyway, Kate had satisfying work of her own to fill any empty hours. She had started a vocational school for girls, called a School for the Useful Arts, at Bishop's Keep. And her latest Bardwell book, an historical novel set in the seacoast village of Rottingdean and called
Smugglers' Village,
had just appeared. The reviews had been excellent, and she was beginning to think it was time to start another book, although she had no idea what sort of book it ought to be.

On the other side of the fire, Charles Sheridan, the fifth Baron of Somersworth, was also neglecting his reading. He was thinking, quite unhappily, about his mother and the visit he should have to pay next week to the family estate in Norwich, where the dowager Lady Somersworth lived when not in residence at Sibley House.

Until two years ago, Somersworth and Sibley House had also been home to his older brother, Robert, the fourth Baron, whose death had shifted to Charles's unwilling shoulders not only the barony but the duties and responsibilities that went with it: the management of estates in England and Ireland, the family seat in the House of Lords, and a place in Society—none of which Charles wanted. The estates presented far too many intractable problems, his liberal leanings made him unpopular with the other lords, and he didn't give a shilling for Society, which he found trivial and tedious. He had even insisted on retaining the name of Sheridan, his
own
name, which had served him well for his lifetime.

Now, after two long years of being Lord Sheridan, Charles was bored, frustrated, and ready to throw the whole damn thing over. If he had his way, he and Kate would retire to her Essex estate, where she could write her books and tend her gardens and he could indulge himself by modernizing the old house, cataloging the local flora and fauna, and pursuing the new developments in forensic technologies in which he had a strong interest.

The clock in the corner proffered a tentative whirr, wheezed twice, and began to chime the hour. If he wanted to retire to the country, why the devil didn't he retire? The answer unfortunately lay in his oppressive sense of duty. When he and Robert were children, their father had dinned into their ears the favorite British catechism:
Not what you will but what you must,
and that hoary old exhortation of Nelson's:
England expects that every man will do his duty.

Unfortunately, Charles had learned his lesson all too well. Until his mother was dead, he would do what he must to uphold the family name, which would die with him, since Kate could not bear him any children. What he
would
not do was allow his mother to behave discourteously to his wife, and the safest way to guarantee that was to keep them apart. Hence, Kate was taking the train to Essex in the morning, and he would go off to Somersworth to discuss the year's harvest yields with his estate agent, act the beneficent landlord to his tenants, and play the role of dutiful son to his overbearing mother—all very dull, terribly boring, and unfortunately obligatory.

Charles sighed and went back to his newspaper.

T
he dining room at Sibley House was as large and as bleak as a cave, but Kate had screened off an area near the fireplace and had a table for seven arranged there. Their guests were Lady Randolph and her companion, a handsome young (very young) lieutenant of the Scots Guards named George Cornwallis-West; Manfred Raeburn, the managing editor of Jennie's magazine; Mr. Raeburn's vivacious and thoroughly modern sister, Maude, who had recently returned from a walking tour of Italy and Greece; and Winston.

The staff at Sibley House was so excellently trained that Kate gave scarcely a thought to the mechanics of dinner. Elegant dishes appeared and disappeared and fine wines were poured with a flourish, while sparkling conversation ebbed and flowed the length of the intimate table. The only difficulty that Kate could see was a marked coldness between Winston and Mr. Raeburn, a bespectacled man who had apparently been in his regiment, and a definite stiffness between Winston and Lieutenant Cornwallis-West. Kate understood perfectly well what
that
was about, because the young guardsman, who was almost exactly Winston's age, was Lady Randolph's current
affaire du coeur.
Lady Randolph—her dark beauty emphasized by her pale green satin gown, quite
décolleté—was
a stunningly attractive woman who always had a coterie of men at her heels, usually younger men. The rumors about her relationship with the gallant and self-assured guardsman had been flying wildly about London all summer, even finding their way into the newspapers. Kate put Winston's aloofness down to jealousy, for it was obvious from the way he looked at his mother that he was extraordinarily attached to Jennie, and not a little possessive.

The women made their usual departure after dinner, Kate leading them to the smallest of the three drawing rooms, where fresh flowers from the conservatory scented the air and coffee and liqueurs were arranged on a table in front of the fire. Miss Raeburn excused herself to freshen up, and Kate and Lady Randolph were left alone.

Kate leaned back in her chair, wishing that she were an artist and might sketch this beautiful woman with the enigmatic eyes. “I am so glad to get to know you better, Lady Randolph.”

“I should like to call you Kate,” Lady Randolph said decidedly, “and I wish you would call me Jennie.” She returned Kate's smile and lowered her voice confidentially. “After all, we are both Americans, married into English families. We both know how difficult
that
can be.” She paused. “And you already know that I am a great admirer of Beryl Bardwell. I have read
all
her work.”

“Thank you,” Kate said, although she doubted that Jennie Churchill knew everything she had written. Back in New York, where she had supported herself entirely with her pen, Kate had produced whatever she could sell—mostly sensational penny dreadfuls with titles like “Missing Pearl” and “The Daughter's Deadly Revenge” for Frank Leslie's monthly magazine. She wasn't ashamed of the work, for it had put food on the table and a roof over her head, and had taught her a good bit into the bargain. But the surprising inheritance that had delivered her from writing for a living now allowed her to write as she chose. While her recent work still belonged more or less to the popular genre of detective fiction, it was far more psychologically inclined, with a deeper exploration of motive and mood. Kate was especially interested in portraying strong and self-willed women who made their own way in the world, sometimes becoming victims of their own ambition, sometimes becoming villains, sometimes heroines. Strong-willed, forthright women who managed their own affairs, knew their own minds, and followed their own hearts. Women like Jennie Churchill—and hence Kate's interest in her guest.

“Perhaps,” Jennie said, “you would consider writing a story for the first issue of my new literary venture. And I should very much like to have your advice and counsel on the magazine itself.”

“Mine?” Kate asked in surprise. “But I thought that Mr. Raeburn—”

“Mr. Raeburn,” Jennie said firmly, “is experienced in the technical and financial aspects of publishing. But I need someone who knows the literary scene and can help me make an editorial plan for the first four issues.” Her dark eyes were intense, her face passionate. “I have such
dreams
for the magazine, Kate! My life has grown meaningless these last two years. I sometimes think that all I have to look forward to is an endless parade of country-house parties, dinners, and balls.” She leaned forward. “The magazine can change all that. It will give my life direction. More than that, it will have an influence on the way people think.”

“I quite agree,” Kate said. “If I can help in any way, please do call on me.”

“Wonderful!” Jennie exclaimed. “Perhaps, then, we might spend several mornings next week discussing what might be done.”

“I'm sorry,” Kate said. “I'm leaving for the country tomorrow.” At Jennie's crestfallen look, she added, “But I should be very pleased if you would come to stay with me at Bishop's Keep. Charles will be at Somersworth and I have only a few little projects to keep me occupied. Please come, whenever you like.”

It was true that Kate had only a few projects currently in hand, but one of them was hardly “little.” Her School for the Useful Arts had created quite a controversy in the neighborhood, especially among certain local churchmen who considered public education their purogative, and she was going to have to deal with the problem. But that shouldn't occupy all her time.

“We can be quite alone,” she went on, “and walk in the garden and drive to the village and talk to our hearts' content—if you wouldn't find it all too boring.” She smiled. “I'm afraid there is no Society to speak of, and we are very quiet.”

“No Society!” Jennie clapped her hands delightedly. “Oh, Kate, it sounds delightful! No parties, no balls, no silly chatter—just quiet talks and evenings before the fire. I shall come whenever it is convenient for you.”

At that point, Miss Raeburn entered the room and turned the conversation to her recent, extended tour of the Mediterranean countries. It was nearly twenty minutes before she drew a breath and Kate could suggest that they join the men in the library.

 

“So, Winston, I hear that you're bound for India again. You'll be rejoining the Fourth, will you?”

Charles sat down in a wing chair with his snifter of brandy and crossed his legs. Raeburn and Cornwallis-West had detached themselves and were engaged in an animated discussion by the fire, the topic of which seemed to be stag shooting in Scotland. Actually, Charles thought, this was rather a relief. Though he seldom noticed such things, the tension between Winston and the two other men had been quite evident at dinner. Winston obviously resented the young guardsman's attentions to his mother and had turned a noticeable cold shoulder to Raeburn, in spite of the fact that they'd been at Aldershot together.

“Yes, after the first of the year,” Winston said, accepting a cigar from the butler and folding himself into the chair opposite. “I departed India so precipitously that I left quite a few loose ends.” He grinned in boyish pleasure. “Although I must admit that it is less India that summons me than the Inter-Regimental Tournament.”

“Ah, polo,” Charles said, tilting his glass. “The emperor of games.” The game in which so many British officers in India spent their idle hours—their
long
idle hours. “Is the tournament ground still at Meerut?”

“Indeed,” Winston said. “Still stirrup-deep in red dust.”

“And Sir Pertab Singh is still regent of Jodhpur?”

“To be sure. You know him, then?”

Charles nodded. “Give him my regards, will you?” He himself had returned to India after a battle, to “tie up loose ends.” But that had been a long time ago. He changed the subject. “I understand that you are writing another book.”

“The War for the Waterway,”
Winston replied. “It is much in my mind.”

“I greatly enjoyed your last.” Charles rose, went to the shelf, and selected his copy of
The Malakand Field Force.
“I must say, I am impressed by your work—and by the reviews. As I recall, the
Spectator
hailed it as a minor classic. And the Prince has been praising it to everyone who will listen.” He extended the book. “Perhaps you will be good enough to autograph it for me.”