Death of a Dowager (22 page)

Chapter 45

Later that evening at Lucy’s house, Edward dictated to me two letters, one to Mrs. Fairfax at Ferndean inquiring again about John’s recovery and one to Augie telling him about Blanche’s threat.

“I am not sure it will do more than make him feel helpless,” Edward said about the latter as I guided his hand to the spot where he could put his signature. “But if I were he, I’d want to know what my wife was facing.”

I agreed. “Do you really think she’d go to India? Would that be so bad for her?”

Edward considered my question carefully. “I don’t know. I can’t answer that. I haven’t visited the country.”

We climbed into bed and I took solace in my husband’s arms. The thought of a forced separation seemed inhumane to me, and I told him so.

“That is the prerogative of the King, to move us all around like chess pieces on a board.”

“But we are not his possessions! We have our own wills, our own dreams and desires!”

“As long as men have minds, they will want to determine their own destinies,” Edward said as he kissed me. “They will also want the freedom to marry whom they choose. That, dear heart, is a right our sovereign does not enjoy. Nor do most of his citizens.”

After Edward fell to sleep, I clambered out of bed and sat looking out the window at the twinkling lights of candles and torchères all over the city of London. I imagined that each light represented one soul. How could it be that an accident of birth gave one man the power to make such important decisions for all of us?

The next morning, while Ned was still sleeping and Adèle was eating porridge with Amelia, Edward and I were at breakfast when Higgins announced that Mr. Waverly had arrived.

Edward raised an eyebrow to me by way of wondering why the man had again joined us, and I murmured, “I don’t know.”

“If you are looking for Mrs. Brayton, she isn’t up yet. You are making quite the habit of visiting us,” I said. “We’ve become a regular stop on your daily rounds. Tell us, what have we done now to warrant such interest?”

“Could I trouble you first for a cup of tea?” One side of his waistcoat hung lower than the other, as the result of being wrongly buttoned. The lapels of his jacket were dusty, and he needed a fresh shave. The past few days had taken their toll on Mr. Waverly.

“Of course.” I poured for him. “Please help yourself to the rashers and eggs. I’m sure Mrs. Brayton won’t mind.”

“I will at that.”

We ate in expectant silence. When Mr. Waverly finished most of his food, he said, “I am not a fool.”

Of course, we had no idea how to respond. Neither of us thought of him that way. In fact, we’d come to appreciate the man and his unending desire to uncover the truth.

“Mr. Waverly,” Edward said, “rest assured that my wife and I have only the highest opinion of your talents. Furthermore, Mr. Douglas told us early on that you were the best of your lot. And we all know the Bow Street Runners to be courageous as well as intelligent. If you think we have overlooked the fact that you have a good head on your shoulders, you are sadly mistaken.”

Mr. Waverly sagged in his chair. “I resent being ordered to carry out ridiculous orders simply because a young woman has convinced my superior that she is right and I am wrong.”

“Mary Ingram again?” I asked with exasperation. “Will she not put this fantasy of hers to rest? Why does she refuse to leave Mr. Lerner alone? Did Mr. Carter’s intervention mean nothing to her?”

“Not Miss Mary,” said Mr. Waverly. “Her sister, Miss Blanche Ingram. She has now changed her story and determined that it was Mr. Rochester who poisoned her mother.”

“Ho!” Edward coughed. “It’s a bit early in the day for such joking around.” My husband peered at Mr. Waverly, straining to discern the other man’s expression. “Come now, Waverly. Such antics are beyond the bounds of good taste.”

“I couldn’t agree more, sir, but there it is. She swears up one side and down the other that you poisoned Lady Ingram.”

“This grows entirely too tedious,” I said through gritted teeth. “Pray tell me, how could my husband have accomplished such a dastardly deed? What access did he have to poison? How could he have killed her when they weren’t even in the same room?”

Waverly shook his head. “I have no idea, but the Honorable Blanche Ingram has convinced the magistrate that all of this is not only possible but likely. She says that she was drinking coffee when Mr. Rochester arrived earlier that morning to beg her forgiveness. She wrote in a statement that she was briefly alone with him because her mother and sister tarried. According to Miss Ingram, Mr. Rochester must have added the poison to the tin of coffee sitting on the tray when she got up to see her sister.”

“The woman talks nonsense,” I said. “At this rate, they shall next blame me.”

Edward put his hand over mine. “Except that they know that by blaming Lucy and me, they are causing you to suffer greatly. My dear wife, it is abundantly clear that you fear nothing—except harm that comes to those you love.”

In truth, though, Edward was right—and I was frightened. This continuing persecution by the Ingram sisters had begun to wear me down. I had been concerned when they blamed Lucy, but I knew their accusation was impossible. I had been there, I had watched the proceedings, and, if necessary, I could proclaim my friend’s innocence. Besides, it had been early days back then. I thought that the Ingrams would retreat as time went on and their malicious ideas gained no traction. Instead, they kept launching salvo after salvo. This new claim shocked me to my core. I fought the urge to retch as I imagined Edward, crippled and almost blind, being arrested and taken to Newgate. How would he survive among thugs and killers?

He would not have a chance.

“If that was how it was done, why didn’t the coffee have a deleterious effect on Miss Ingram?” Edward seemed outwardly calm, but I knew him well enough to know he was livid.

“That’s the point. She says it did. She states—and others can confirm—that she was taken ill after Mr. Rochester’s visit. That had she not purged herself of the poison, she, too, would have died.”

“When Lucy and I visited, shortly after Edward and Mr. Douglas left, Lady Grainger told us that Miss Ingram had been under the weather. It certainly did not sound like a recent bout. It sounded as though she had been unwell for some time. In fact, when we saw her at the opera, her color was unusually pale,” I said.

“Look,” Mr. Waverly began in a peevish tone, “I am here, presenting this to you, because I hope one of us can answer this charge. I know it to be unfounded. All of this nonsense keeps me from finding Lady Ingram’s real killer.”

I understood the selfish purpose behind Blanche Ingram’s bold falsehood. The Honorable Blanche Ingram thought that by accusing Edward of this crime, she could put pressure on Lucy to force Lady Grainger to readjust her will.

“The answer is simple. Go fetch Mr. Parmenter. He’ll inform your supervisor that Edward’s eyesight is so impaired that such a move, an action requiring a great deal of finesse, would have been impossible,” I said.

“Better yet,” suggested Edward, “I shall accompany you to speak to the magistrate. When I stumble into his office, trip over his furniture, and plant my face in his carpet, he will see the light!”

Chapter 46

Luckily for us, Mr. Douglas sauntered into the dining room. “What ho! Look at all these gloomy faces. And here I came to brag about my winnings at the card table last night.”

I poured his tea while Edward and Mr. Waverly filled the man in on Miss Ingram’s latest antics.

“Silly chit. People had already begun to talk about her becoming a spinster. If word gets out of these scurrilous remarks, she’ll be a laughingstock,” Mr. Douglas said as he helped himself to the last of the bacon, folding it inside a piece of toast and taking a bite.

“We should all hope word doesn’t get out. Your sister will suffer, as will your new nephew, just because she has opened her home to us,” I said.

Sadie brought in another plate full of sliced ham, a fresh selection of cheeses, and a hot loaf of bread. Mr. Waverly proceeded to eat like a starving man. Mr. Douglas was only a little more moderate in his consumption.

“Look,” said Mr. Douglas, “I’m happy to go with you two down to Bow Street. I don’t have much influence, but I do have a little.”

“Gads, that’s right. You helped the Bow Street office during the Cato Street riots, didn’t you?” Mr. Waverly now looked much livelier. “Magistrate Birnie is bound to recognize you.”

“Yes, indeed, and I can talk to him on Mr. Rochester’s behalf. On the way back, I’d like to stop by Hatchards. There’s a book by William Blake that I want.”

“You sound confident that my husband won’t be charged. Are you really so sure?” I tried not to let my worry show. “Perhaps I should come, too, in case I am needed.”

“No,” said Mr. Waverly, tucking his truncheon under his arm and standing at attention. “I beg you to stay away, Mrs. Rochester. Once Mr. Rochester has shown my superior how ridiculous this matter is, I hope the magistrate will no longer waste my time or his listening to the imprecations of young women with bees in their bonnets. This is nothing more than a distraction, and while I am a party to it, a real killer escapes justice.”

My hands knotted into fists as I watched the coach drive off. How I wished I had an opportunity to punch Miss Ingram in the stomach just like Lucy had! As if responding to my thoughts, my friend appeared at the top of the stairs. “I have a horrible headache,” she said, as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s get you a cold cloth and a nice cup of tea. I’ll see if Polly has any remedy for your condition.”

Once Polly and I had seen to Lucy’s comfort, I checked on the children. “Young Master is awful cranky, ma’am,” said Amelia. “Those little teeth of his are trying to break through the skin.” While she ran downstairs for brandy, I carried my son into Adèle’s room. The French girl sat in her chemise in the middle of a circle of dolls. “Adèle! You need to get dressed
tout de suite
,” I said, before I further instructed her to read another story of a saint.

“Which one?” she asked.

“You choose.” I joggled Ned and tried to distract him from the pain.

Amelia took my son from me. “If the rain holds off, I’ll take the children to the park this afternoon. Maybe we can get Young Master to forget how badly his mouth hurts.”

I thought this a good idea and told her so.

A little later, with help from a tisane that Polly brewed, Lucy felt much better. Rags stretched out next to his mistress and licked her hand. “Dear, dear Rags. If the world turns its back on me, you’d still think I hung the moon, wouldn’t you?”

“Lucy, I am loath to call you overly dramatic, but you are tipping the scale in that direction. Whatever abuses Blanche Ingram heaps upon you, there will be plenty of us who know how truly wonderful you are. Stop letting her destroy your happiness. In a few days, Evans will be here—and he won’t care one iota if you are invited to Almack’s or not. Come now. Let’s get you up and about.”

I told her about Mr. Waverly’s visit.

“Oh! I despise that woman more and more each day! I do not know who poisoned her mother, but I think the killer cut down the wrong Ingram!”

I tugged the bellpull for Polly. “Once you are dressed, we can discuss a strategy for dealing with this plague. Boils, locusts, and Ingrams!”

In short order, Lucy came down the stairs looking like her lovely self. We repaired to the drawing room for tea and a planning session. “We could always drop by and see Minney and Maria,” said my friend as Higgins appeared with a card on a tray and once again bypassed Lucy. He held it out for me to take. “The courier is waiting for a response, Mrs. Rochester,” said Higgins.

Although not a muscle moved in his face, he still seemed somewhat impressed.

The note was of thick ivory stock with a red embossed crown on the flap. I peeled off the wax seal and opened an invitation to visit the King at Carlton House, right away.

I put the card back on the tray and said to Higgins, “Please tell the courier that I have other plans.”

Chapter 47

Higgins looked aghast but turned to go.

“Wait!” Lucy stopped her butler. “Jane, have you gone mad? This only
looks
like an invitation. It is in fact a royal summons. You may think you have a choice, but you don’t. You must go or risk the King’s displeasure.”

I had no idea what that might mean, but the tone of her voice caused me to recognize she was deadly serious.

“Don’t risk it,” she whispered. “You think you are safe because you are blameless, because you are a loyal citizen. But can you say the same for Edward? Can you be so confident that nothing in his past might come back to haunt him?”

“Such as what? His marriage to a madwoman?” I scoffed, certain my husband had withheld no secrets from me.

She sputtered and stomped her foot and finally spat out, “Such as a duel? Did you not ever wonder why his father was so eager to pack up his son and marry him off? Why it was important that Edward marry a woman of vast means and resources? Are you ignorant of the fact that the penalty for dueling is to be hanged to death?”

I sank slowly into a chair, a little stunned by the realization that she was right. “Mrs. Fairfax had told me some of the particulars, but she edited her version quite skillfully.” A sick chill started in my fingers and quickly traveled up my arms. Was it possible my husband was at risk? Lucy had suffered from the King’s revenge, and now she hoped to spare me similar misery. Her husband might never come home, if His Majesty had his way.

I turned to Higgins. “Please tell the courier that I am delighted to do the King’s bidding. I won’t be but a moment.”

Polly helped me into my claret-colored silk. Lucy oversaw my toilet, suggesting one of her bonnets and a spencer that would look well with my dress. When I was suitably attired, Lucy and I went downstairs to the entry hall where there stood a man in livery, his red jacket covered in an excessive amount of gold braid.

“Really,” I said with a smile to him, “this is most unexpected and—”

The young man bowed deeply, a motion causing the multitude of frothy ruffles around his neck to flutter like white butterflies. “A carriage awaits you.”

I gave Lucy a quick hug good-bye, and she whispered, “You’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I wish you were coming with me.”

She smiled. “I shall go and visit Maria Fitzherbert. I know she’ll be happy to see me.”

By the time I stepped outside onto the pavement, rain had begun in earnest. The equerry and a footman helped me into the King’s carriage, and I tried to brush off the water as we rode through the streets of London at a faster pace than strictly necessary, pulled by a pair of ivory-colored horses. Even if bystanders had not caught a glimpse of the King’s new crest, with its addition of the blue garter, they would know the conveyance was his simply by glancing at the matching horses, the Royal Hanoverian Creams. I told myself I should at least enjoy the view as we circled St. James’s Park on our way to Carlton House.

We arrived at the hexastyle portico flanked by Corinthian columns. One of the footmen ran up with an umbrella, which he held over my head as I climbed out of the carriage.

Once I was inside the front door, I was greeted curtly by a maid of honour who introduced herself as Lady Pamela Gordon. Although she could not have been more than sixteen, she acted supremely bored. She was here to learn court manners and to make a good marriage, not to think deep thoughts.

I did my utmost to pay attention and observe my new environs, as I thought it highly unlikely that I would ever be invited back. Carlton House was different from most of the finer homes in London in that the visitor entered an enormous foyer on the main floor, rather than climbing up a set of stairs from the area into the living quarters. Lady Pamela escorted me through an octagonal room with a vast winding staircase at one side. From there we proceeded into the main anterooms and turned left.

“Lady Conyngham asked to speak with you first. Then you will be taken to His Majesty.” Lady Pamela did not indicate what she thought about this diversion.

Being waylaid should not have surprised me. This was exactly the sort of control that Mr. Waverly had suggested the Marchioness held over the King. We processed into an ornate sitting room, decorated in the French style, using pale silk as a foil to ornately carved woods. An exquisite painting on the wall stopped me.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lady Conyngham spoke from an elaborate chair near the window. “It is a Rembrandt.”

“It is masterful,” I said. I had heard much of Rembrandt’s genius, but I had never seen any work of art that matched this in conveying such a sense of intimacy with the subject.

With effort, I tore myself away from the painting and approached Lady Conyngham. I sank into a deep curtsy. This time, she did not offer to embrace me. That fulsome affection she had offered at Lady Grainger’s home was nowhere in evidence. As she had been every other time I saw her, Lady Conyngham was opulently dressed in lush fabrics, with deep ruffles of lace surrounding her face and hands, and gros de Naples under the bust of her gown. Jewels hung from her ears and peeped out from her fichu.

“Pamela? Bring us tea.”

The Marchioness remained seated in a deeply cushioned chair, and I took the straight-backed chair across from her. The calculated discomfort of my seat was not lost on me, and I marveled again at the Marchioness and her ability to knock others off their game. The maid of honour left, and Lady Conyngham stared at me, hard, letting silence drag on.

Lady Pamela returned, struggling under the weight of a heavy tea tray. The tea set was silver, but the cups and pot were fine porcelain, nearly translucent, with gold trim. The serving plate was piled high with candied ginger scones, crumpets with ripe currants, and an assortment of iced biscuits. Pots of jams, clotted cream, and butter waited to be slathered onto the pastries.

“So, let us go immediately to the heart of the matter. You are here to see the King?” asked the Marchioness.

“At his request, yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I thought this a wonderful opportunity for us to have a small tête-à-tête.” She smiled but did not bare her teeth, which Mr. Douglas had told me were as false as her friendship. “You are familiar with the word, are you not? Ah, that’s right. You were a governess, weren’t you?”

I could see where this was going.

“Yes, ma’am. I have been a schoolteacher, and I once tutored Mr. Rochester’s ward, Adèle Varens.”

“The daughter of the French opera dancer.”

“Yes.” I felt as though she was toying with me, the way my cat Mephisto does when he finds a small lizard, before he kills it. My adversary wanted me to know she was familiar with domestic aspects of my life. I wondered why she’d gone to such trouble. Several days had passed since the Marchioness and I had last spoken, and in the interim, I had largely pushed Mr. Waverly’s warning about her to one side. Now her intensity brought back all of his concerns about her tenacity of purpose—and her ruthlessness.

Perhaps I should not have come here alone.

Lady Conyngham prepared the tea, measuring into the pot three spoonfuls of fragrant leaves. A pile of cubes was heaped high in the sugar bowl with a set of tongs resting on top. Likewise, the cream pitcher was full to the brim. She poured a cup of tea for me, and I added the sugar and cream.

“So,” she said, “Lady Ingram was murdered, and the Bow Street office believes that she was killed with poison.” This was not the topic I thought she’d introduce. I had expected her to ask me about the letter.

In light of her pronouncement, I thought it needed amending. “Mr. Lerner’s experiments seem to have proven as much. At least to him.”

“Who is responsible for Lady Ingram’s death?”

“I have no idea, ma’am.”

“Well, I do. The Honorable Blanche Ingram visited me yesterday. She had the most amazing story about your husband! Oh dear, I could scarcely credit it, but she assures me it is all true and that she has proof. My, my, but Miss Ingram is very . . . shrewd.”

With both hands, I lifted my cup to cover my face and forced myself to drink more tea. I needed to play for time. At last I said, “Indeed.”

“Yes, evidently Squire Rochester paid a visit to Miss Ingram at Lady Grainger’s home before the rest of us arrived that afternoon. Miss Ingram swears to me that he slipped a toxic substance into her tin of coffee.”

“How?” I told myself that I must remain calm. That any sign of weakness would surely serve to encourage the Marchioness in her quest.

“She did not go into particulars, but she assures me that her sister can support her in this.”

I said nothing, although I fought many emotions. Fear, most of all, and dread.

“Then, too, there’s the matter of a duel. Your husband had quite a temper when he was younger.”

I continued to stay silent.

“Have you ever visited Newgate Prison, Mrs. Rochester? Or seen a felon die by hanging? Oh my. It fills the mind with nightmares that cannot be erased.” As she spoke, Lady Conyng-
ham watched me, her face glowing with self-congratulation. I did my best to keep from showing how frightened I was, but I know I wasn’t terribly successful.

“Mr. Waverly underestimates me,” she said at last.

“How so?” I managed with difficulty. Her abrupt shift of topic had caught me unaware.

“He thinks that I don’t know what he is about.”

I drank even more tea, as I tried to sort through my options.

“He thinks I don’t know the real reason he’s been assigned to me.” She sighed. “I know very well that His Majesty has ordered Waverly to keep an eye on me. That the Bow Street Runner hopes to uncover any wrongdoings on my part and report them to the King.”

“Why would His Majesty order Mr. Waverly to do that?”

“Please, Mrs. Rochester,” she said with a smirk. “Do not act a part to which you are not well suited. You are plain and unassuming but tolerably intelligent. More so than most. You can very well guess at what his intentions are.”

“I have met the King but once, and I can assure you that I do my utmost to ignore gossip. As one who has been on the unhappy receiving end of such slander, I am eager to discount what I hear. Instead, I tend to believe what I see, and even that I temper with skepticism. Therefore, I am singularly unqualified and too uninterested to even hazard a guess at any such motives.”

She sat back, crossed her arms over one knee, and puckered her mouth at me. “Well, well, well.”

I kept a bland expression on my face.

“You don’t make this easy, do you? I might as well speak frankly with you, as one woman to another. You see, I know the King. Intimately. He is fickle, and he is manipulative, and he tires of women easily. I pamper him, I wait upon him, I coddle him, and tell him what a god among men he is. In return, he frets and stews and thinks of nothing but himself. Typical of the gender, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not of my husband.”

“Ah. Lucky you. But then your husband is half blind and crippled. That does rather take the spirit out of the stallion, doesn’t it?”

This brought the heat to my face. Then I remembered Lucy’s advice: To get a person to talk, incite anger. And every bit as quickly, I cooled off.

“Actually, my stallion still can kick out the slats in his stall. However, Edward Rochester is exceptional, and I do recognize my good fortune. I am sorry for you that His Majesty does not properly appreciate your . . . service to him.”

She chuckled. Her next words were pitched very low. “The King instructed Mr. Waverly to keep an eye on me, because he enjoys having leverage over others. When a man is weak, he enjoys the weakness of others because it makes him feel less alone. I am not weak. Miss Ingram thinks that I am easily led. In truth, I am neither. I think you know that.”

I waited.

“Miss Ingram has her own motives for suggesting that your husband is to blame for her mother’s murder, doesn’t she?”

“That’s right. She does.” Relief ran through me, and I felt the tension leave my body. I sat back a little in my chair, as I offered a prayer of thanksgiving.

Lady Conyngham smiled at me. “See? I am neither weak nor foolish. No, I have not advanced this far in life because I have let others run over me. Miss Ingram thinks she can influence me to help her. But she has nothing I want. Nothing. However, you do. I want that letter. If you do not turn it over to me, I shall have to tell Mr. Waverly what I saw.”

“What do you mean?”

“I shall have to tell him that I saw Lucy Brayton put something into Lady Ingram’s drink.”