Death of a Dowager (27 page)

Chapter 60

Outside in the hallway, Mr. Waverly had been waiting for this confession. He walked past us, taking care that his black baton was highly visible under his arm. When he reached Miss Mary’s side, he said, “Come with me, miss. You don’t want to make a scene, do you?”

Miss Mary only cried softly and shook her head.

“You—” Blanche Ingram had been temporarily struck dumb, but as the man from Bow Street led her sister away, the older Ingram sister gave her sibling a withering look and called out, “I hope you rot in prison!”

Edward, Lucy, Mr. Douglas, and I accompanied Lady Grainger downstairs, leaving the rest of the mourners to console “poor” Miss Blanche Ingram.

“I feel sorry for Mary,” said the Lady, as we watched Mr. Waverly help her niece into a waiting coach. “I hope they won’t deal too harshly with her.”

“Though her attempts to cast blame on innocents won’t win her any favors, I believe she might get off rather lightly, since the poison was not a poison, per se, but rather a medicinal treatment misapplied,” said Mr. Douglas. “Of course, the fact that she is the daughter of a baron will be helpful to her as well.”

“Are you all right, Olivia?” Lucy asked her friend.

“I’m terribly saddened by this—and I wish things were different. Mary has lived so long in Blanche’s shadow. Perhaps I should have reached out to the younger girl,” said Lady Grainger. “Although in truth, I don’t know what else I could have done. I did speak up on her behalf, several times. But Silvana was such a dominant personality. So confident as a mother. When I did make suggestions, she cast them aside with ugly commentary implying that a childless woman like me could not understand her role as a parent.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “A child grows in a mother’s heart, not just in her womb. Our love and concern can extend beyond blood ties, else how could a marriage last?”

“Well said, my darling.” Edward squeezed my hand.

Lady Grainger turned to stare at me. “You are wise beyond your years, Mrs. Rochester. I suppose this is as good of a time as any to thank you for figuring out what really happened to my sister-in-law. My staff will be relieved to know that the murky cloud of suspicion has lifted from our household.”

“You are very kind,” I said.

“What will you do about Miss Mary?” asked Mr. Douglas, when we had reached the ground floor. “I hope you’ll consider hiring a good barrister for her. If necessary, I can recommend several.”

“Yes, of course, I will.” With the recognition of that responsibility, Lady Grainger crumpled a little.

“And her sister? It will be devilishly hard for Miss Blanche Ingram to navigate the choppy waters of society after this,” Edward said.

“Her marital prospects will have dimmed considerably.” Lucy’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“There’s always an Italian count lurking somewhere, who wants a peeress for a bride,” said Lady Grainger. “I shall urge Blanche in the strongest tones to travel the continent. Perhaps I’ll even go with. She still has a modicum of beauty, but I shall impress upon her that the blush on her cheeks is fading fast.”

Although I did not betray my emotions, I couldn’t help but think that with any luck, I’d never see Blanche Ingram again. I should have to pray she found her Italian count—and that he was a determined homebody.

“It must be a relief,” said Lucy, hugging her friend, “to have this over. I know it is for all of us.

“I’ve seen better days,” Lady Grainger admitted. “But the dog breeder sent ’round a message yesterday that he has a new litter of pups that have almost been weaned. I’m to choose one next week.”

“Good for you,” said Lucy. “I shall want to meet the newest member of your family.”

“And I shall want to meet yours when he arrives,” said Lady Grainger, as she gave Lucy one more hug before we departed.

The events at Lady Grainger’s house had sapped all my energy. As a consequence, I spent the next two days resting in bed and working on my pen-and-ink piece for Evans, taking my time as I drew in the foxglove stems with finger-shaped blossoms.

I did my best to forget about the King’s love letter. It was locked away safely, and Lady Conyngham had lost her leverage over me now that Miss Mary was in Newgate, as was Mrs. Biltmore. Mr. Waverly had sent ’round a note that he would need a formal statement from me, but that it could wait until I regained my strength. He also thanked me for solving the mystery of Lady Ingram’s death. With any luck, we would never cross paths again.

Mr. Lerner had accepted the position to assist Mr. Carter, and he and Miss Goldstein were to be married later in the summer. They had kindly invited all of us to attend, and I was looking forward to the event and to meeting the young lady. Meanwhile, as an early wedding gift, Edward and Mr. Douglas had located a new satchel for the doctor. One with a sturdy latch.

A letter from Mrs. Fairfax informed us that John was definitely on the mend, sitting up in his bed and grumbling about having “nowt to do.” The roof was another story, as the builders continued to uncover more and more rot in the structure. However, our housekeeper thought that good progress was being made. Good progress was also being made with Edward’s eyesight—though it would never return to normal, it was improving steadily.

As I recovered, the Brayton household was in happy chaos around me. Lucy put this unhappy passage behind her and turned all her attentions to preparing for Evans’s imminent arrival.

On Saturday afternoon, there came a knock at the front door. When it was not immediately answered, it came again. This time Rags went wild with barking. I could hear the commotion all the way upstairs in the nursery, where I was reading to Ned, after instructing Adèle to translate a textbook passage from French into English, while Edward and Mr. Douglas were spending time together at Boodle’s.

Voices drifted up, but they were indistinct, so I continued with the story about the golden goose from
Grimm’s Children’s and Household Tales
. I was explaining how the youngest son asked his father if he could cut wood when Amelia ran in. “Come quickly, ma’am. He’s here!”

“He who?”

“The little boy. What’s his name—Evans!”

I handed her my son and hurried to get Adèle. “
Vite!”
I told the young French girl, as she reluctantly put aside her dolls. She and I immediately started down the stairs all the while taking great care not to put stress on my wound.

Voices from the drawing room attracted me, so I hurried there to find Lucy. In her arms was an infant with a face as round as a soup bowl, bright blue eyes, and a tuft of ginger-colored hair. Tears streamed down my friend’s face. All she could say was, “Oh, oh, oh, oh. He looks exactly like Augie!”

Seated across from her was a kindly looking woman with gray hair slicked back into a neat bun. “Mrs. Wallander, I presume?” I offered my hand.

“Ja,” she said. Her sturdy shoes and simple traveling frock spoke volumes about this no-nonsense woman.

She took my hand and shook it solemnly, giving me the chance to take note of her button nose, her cherry-shaped lips, and her ruddy complexion. One look in her eyes told me she was a shrewd judge of character, and that she was taking everything in, trying to decide if Evans would be happy here.

I could have told her that he would. Lucy would make his happiness her mission in life.

I took Adèle by the hand and gestured for Amelia to follow with Ned on her hip, so that we were approaching Evans with great care, as I did not wish to overwhelm the boy. I moved closer to the newcomer. “Adèle and Ned, this is Evans. Lucy’s son. Your new best friend.”

The babies stared at each other, wide-eyed and curious Adèle crowed with delight. A stream of French followed, but the gist was, “Now I am the sister to two boys!” and then she dropped to her knees to cover Evans’s face with kisses. Rags joined the throng, standing on his two hind legs and dancing in a happy circle.

Amelia took Mrs. Wallander upstairs to get settled into her new quarters. I sank down on the settee next to Lucy, as she gazed on the baby in wonder. Adèle continued to murmur endearments to her new friend. Lucy, for the first time since I’d known her, seemed entirely dumbstruck. All she could do was stare at the boy. At long last she said, “Is it true? Really true? Jane, tell me, am I dreaming?”

“No,” I said, and I carefully wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “No, dear heart. You are fully awake, and your dream has come true.”

Chapter 61

The entire household was overjoyed to meet little Evans. Mr. Douglas doted on the child, and Edward declared the boy to be his father’s mirror image. Over the next few days, the baby was passed from one set of arms to another as we took turns admiring the newest member of what we called “our family.” As for Lucy, she was positively radiant. Happier than I’d ever seen her.

The arrival of Evans turned the household into a busy beehive of visitors and commotion, as Lucy received numerous well-wishers. In between visits, I tried to keep as still as possible so that my stitches would heal. My wound had turned a variety of colors, but thanks to Polly’s daily applications of poultices and honey, the spot had not grown hot to the touch, and no infection had set in. Still, it pained me.

I sat in the library and worked on my gift for Evans by using my paints to add light washes of color to the piece. The effect had been very pleasing, as my touches brought out the tiny rabbit hidden in the bushes and the robin in the tree and the frog under a bush.

“This is magnificent, Jane,” said Lucy. Her face beamed with happiness as she examined my work while Evans was upstairs napping. “You have done such an impressive job. He will treasure this forever. I know he will.”

“Look who we found on the front doorstep,” said Mr. Douglas, coming into the library alongside my husband, and stepping aside to reveal Mr. Waverly.

“My congratulations to you, Mrs. Brayton, on the newest member of your household,” Waverly said to Lucy.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “How kind of you to come in person to offer them.”

“I wish I could say that had been my intention.” He sighed, sinking into an armchair. “The truth is, however, that while the circumstances surrounding Lady Ingram’s death have been cleared, there is still the matter of the letter Mrs. Rochester possesses, the one that drove Mrs. Biltmore to such extremes. Lady Conyngham continues to meet with the Duke of Cumberland,” he said. “I’ve eavesdropped as often as possible. I don’t know what they’re up to, but it can’t be anything good.” Mr. Waverly took off his spectacles and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “She’s playing both sides against the middle. Coddling the King whilst she plots against him. She’s got a list of demands longer than my right arm. I can only guess they’re trying to figure out some other way to pressure Mrs. Rochester to turn over the letter.”

“The Duke of York has promised Maria Fitzherbert that he can smuggle her out of the country if need be, but Minney has told her mother in no uncertain terms that she will not leave her fiancé,” said Lucy.

“Are they truly at risk?” I asked my friends. “If I hand over the letter, are they likely to be hurt?”

“I don’t know.” Mr. Waverly put his glasses back on.

“It depends,” said Mr. Douglas, “on what the Marchioness and the Duke want, and whether the King is willing to give it to them.”

“Then let us be frank with each other. As long as I have that letter and George IV is our Regent, we can safely presume that someone will want it. It’s simply too valuable as a tool of persuasion.”

“Aye,” said Mr. Waverly. “As coronation day grows closer, the stakes get higher in anticipation of the King announcing his appointments and such. Believe me, everyone and his brother has his hand out. There’s a regular parade in and out of Carlton House.” He rose from his seat. “I can’t tell you what to do with it, Mrs. Rochester, but I wish you the wisdom of Solomon.”

After Mr. Waverly’s departure, Edward and Mr. Douglas left Lucy and me alone in the library once again. I turned to her and asked, “Do you mind taking the letter out of the strongbox for me? I want to look it over. Perhaps some flash of an idea will come to me. Odd, isn’t it? That correspondence purports to be a love letter, yet its purpose has nothing to do with love. The King wrote it to Mrs. Biltmore to get rid of her in the most expedient way imaginable.”

“Have you decided what to do?”

“No,” I said. “I only pray that I might be divinely inspired to come up with a solution.”

After Lucy retrieved the letter, she went to check on her son. I stared at the six pages on royal letterhead.
What to do? What to do?

Mr. Waverly had been right. I needed the wisdom of Solomon. I took down a copy of the Bible from Augie’s bookshelves. Opening it, I read out loud: “And the king said, ‘Bring me a sword.’ And they brought a sword before the king. And the king said, ‘Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other.’”

I shuddered, thinking of what might have happened if the child’s true mother hadn’t stepped forward. To divide a child? How horrible! Too ghastly to contemplate. But it did spur my thoughts. The idea of division stuck in my head, whirling ’round and ’round.

Then came my answer: I would divide the letter in two!

But could I? First I would have to ascertain if my skills were up to the task. After tearing two sheets of paper out of my notebook, I went and sat behind Lucy’s desk. Spreading all six pages out in front of me, I pored over the King’s words, occasionally scribbling a phrase or two on my scratch paper. My artistic skills extended to mimicry, and at length, I decided on several simple phrases, concocted from the words he had written. These I copied over and over on my notepaper, using the King’s handwriting as my guide. I took especially careful note of where his strokes began and followed their route to the end.

Next I applied myself to his signature. This proved more challenging, but a reasonable facsimile wasn’t very difficult to create. I only hoped that no one would look too closely. After all, I reasoned, exposing the letter as a “fake” could even end up beneficial. But as I stepped away from my work, doubts plagued me. Yes, it was clear that I could produce a reasonable facsimile, but . . . should I? Was it morally right to do so? Or would I be telling a lie on paper?

This worried me. I thought about the King, about Maria and Minney, about Lady Conyngham and wondered,
Is it ethical to divide up this letter and forge the King’s signature?

My musings were interrupted by a visit from Mr. Lerner. After ringing for Polly, I put down my pen, and he examined my wound while I leaned against Lucy’s desk for support. Once he pronounced it “very nearly healed,” he noticed my scattered papers.

“I am glad you are not doing anything too strenuous,” he remarked, as he turned his back on me so Polly could help me readjust my clothes.

“Polly? Could you ask Sadie to bring us tea?” I said, as a method of gaining us privacy. With a gesture, I indicated to Mr. Lerner to take a seat. Remembering how hungry he always was, I added, “And ask Cook to send up slices of mutton, cheese, and bread, please.”

When she had left, I took a chair as well and said, “Mr. Lerner, what does your religion teach about ethics? I know very little about Judaism except from what I’ve read in the Bible, of course.”

His eyes were lively with intelligence. “Why do you ask? Is this about the ethics of tricking Miss Mary into a confession?”

That might do for my purposes, but I was bound to say, “Not exactly. Although I am curious about that, too.”

“Let us start there. The teachings are very clear that protecting and preserving life triumphs over every other consideration, including the Ten Commandments. You did save my life, in that, had Miss Mary’s false accusations resulted in a trial, I might well have been hanged.”

Sadie entered with a heavily laden tray of food. The steam rising from the teapot, the green scent of bergamot, and a delicate hint of ginger in a plate of fresh scones, distracted the young doctor and me. After the maid left, I served Mr. Lerner, pouring hot tea into his cup.

“Did you have other questions?” he asked, once he’d eaten a plate full of food.

“What if you aren’t sure that the other person is in danger? Does your religion still call upon you to act?”

“Absolutely. We are commanded to protect each other, and not to leave each other in a condition that might be harmful. So, for example, if I see a man’s cart about to overturn, it is my duty to warn him and give him aid. Especially if that accident would cause harm to him or even to his donkey.”

As I sipped my tea, I reflected that Maria Fitzherbert’s situation was not so very different from what he described. All my options came to this: I could not stand by and put Maria and Minney’s lives at risk.

After Mr. Lerner left, I returned to my practice. When I was satisfied with my results, I separated the letter’s fifth page from the sixth. To the bottom of the fifth page, I added my version of the King’s signature. To the top of the sixth page, I added a phrase.

And now I had not one, but two letters written by King George IV.