Dreamspinner (30 page)

Dear Juliet
...

Anxiously she scanned the familiar handwriting on the scented paper, the post that Fleetwood had just delivered. Spying the return address, she’d splashed tea onto the tablecloth in her haste to rip open the envelope. She glanced down to catch the gist of the message. Her head reeled in shock as she returned to the opening paragraph and devoured every dismaying word.

From across the breakfast table, Maud craned her neck to see around a vase of yellow tea roses. “Oh, fiddle, I can’t bear the suspense! What does it say?”

“It’s dreadful,” Juliet said, dropping the letter onto the table. “Mama says that Papa received a summons to see the queen, too. That means both he
and
Kent were at the audience.”

“Egad. Mother didn’t warn me about
that.”

“It gets worse. Papa thought the summons meant he was to be conferred a knighthood.”

Slathering apricot jam onto her toast, Maud stared owl-eyed through the gold-rimmed glasses. “He must have been in quite the steam when he learned the truth.”

Juliet’s stomach wrenched. How disappointed Papa must have been. “No doubt,” she said on a sigh. “Mama must have posted the letter before he went to Windsor yesterday afternoon.”

“I wonder what the queen said to them.”

“We’ll find out soon enough. Kent should return today.”

“The duke certainly seemed in an ill humor when he left.” Licking her fingers, Maud blinked guiltily. “I do hope I didn’t get you into too awfully much trouble.”

“I’m happy you’re here.” Juliet reached out and patted Maud’s hand. “And the situation is hardly your fault. I’m the one who wrote that letter in the first place. I’m still convinced I did the right thing.”

Toying with her teacup, she tried to focus on the good her money would accomplish for the people of Radcliffe. But her thoughts kept flitting to the dark fury on Kent’s face, to the harsh words they’d flung at each other. She felt a sick stirring inside. Once again, she’d acted bolder than the mousy Emily. She’d gone against his wishes and jeopardized their growing closeness.

I’ll tell you my plans when you return from Windsor.

Grand words, she reflected, as a breeze from the open window scudded the letter against a silver salt cellar. Even were she intent on leaving Kent, where would she go? Her father wouldn’t welcome her, not with the taint of the Deverells upon her.

Slowly she folded the letter and stuck it in her pocket. The truth was, she
wanted
to remain mistress of this crumbling castle with its shabby furnishings and walls seeping a mildewy dampness. Over the past weeks, this old place had become intrinsically wound up with her love for Kent.

Augusta clumped into the breakfast room, Punjab close behind, his paws clicking on the flagstones. Gordon followed, vagueness on his thin face, his suit in its perpetual untidy state.

“Good morning,” Juliet said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Tolerably.”

The woman headed to a sideboard laden with covered dishes; Gordon shuffled in her wake. The instant their backs were turned, Maud stuck her eyeglasses into the blue holder, then contorted her face into a comically accurate rendition of Augusta’s dour expression. Juliet lifted her napkin to smother a laugh.

Augusta marched to the table, her plate piled with poached eggs and grilled bloaters. The rubbery yolks and soft-fleshed fish increased Juliet’s queasiness. Averting her gaze, she poured a fresh cup of tea and added a dollop of cream.

“Not eating?” Augusta inquired, eyeing the untouched piece of toast on Juliet’s plate.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

The ginger brows arched; then Augusta poured a saucer of cream-laced tea and placed it on the floor. “There you go, my little darling.”

Tail swishing, Punjab settled down to slurp at the liquid, his snorts of satisfaction filling the silence.

Augusta’s hyacinth gaze shifted to Maud. “And you, my lady? Did you find breakfast sufficiently filling?”

“Marvelous,” Maud gushed. “I was just about to sample the kidneys. I need to sustain my strength if I’m to go riding with Henry this afternoon. He seems a man who could make demands on a lady’s constitution.” She joined Gordon at the sideboard.

“Humph.” Augusta chased her spoon after a slippery lump of egg. “I do so dislike seeing good food go to waste.”

Pungent aromas wafted from the dishes Maud and Gordon carried to the table. Juliet sipped at the tea to settle her churning belly. The shock of that letter following the argument with Kent must have upset her more than she’d thought.

Gordon’s gnarled hand fumbled with the silver; his knife clanked to the floor. “Beg pardon,” he mumbled.

Augusta gave a long suffering sigh. “Yesterday’s rain settled into his bones. He had one of his spells.”

“Have you ever tried an infusion of meadowsweet?” Juliet asked him. “It’s said to ease aches and pains.”

“Meadowsweet.” His brown eyes went unfocused behind his thick glasses. “Derived from the Anglo-Saxon
medu.
In medieval times the plant was used to flavor mead. The flower heads contain salicylic acid—”

“Please, dispense with the lectures this morning,” Augusta said. “Your Grace, the doctor keeps him adequately supplied with proper medication.”

“I was merely trying to help,” Juliet said patiently.

“I’ve got it!” Maud waved a forkful of beef kidneys. “The queen suffers from aching joints. Mother prevail upon Victoria to allow Mr. Deverell access to her own Dr. Reid—”

“Deverells do not accept charity,” Augusta stated. “Lady Higgleston has done quite enough prevailing on behalf of
this
family.” She paused. “Still, Carleton money will certainly be welcome, if indeed the queen awards the dowry.”

She speared a chunk of silvery fish and popped it into her mouth. Bile rose in Juliet’s throat. She focused her eyes on the vase of yellow roses, but the food smells saturated her in a sea of nausea.

She started to rise, the chair legs screeching on the flagstones. A swimming sensation made her sway. Squeezing her eyes shut, she grabbed at the table.

From a distance came Maud’s voice: “Egad, Juliet! You’re white as a ghost.”

“Are you unwell, Your Grace?” asked Augusta.

“I’ve a remedy for pain, a tincture of opium,” said Gordon.

His voice faded as darkness sucked at Juliet. The firm familiarity of the table evaporated. Unable to catch herself, she plunged into a whirling inky pit.

She awoke to see Ravi looming over her. His dusky features looked solemn, his muddy gaze penetrating.

Baffled, Juliet tried to sit; black spots cavorted before her eyes. “Where’s Kent?”

“The sahib has not yet returned. Lie back now.”

She sank against a pillow. As Ravi moved away to stand sentinel by the door, she took in the faded green canopy of her bed, then the women who hovered alongside. Her skin felt clammy, her stomach unsettled. “What happened?”

“You fainted,” Augusta said. “Straight into your chair, thank God, else the hospital fees might have cost us a month’s kitchen money.”

“A genuine swoon,” said Maud, her eyes agog behind the spectacles. “Alas, it wasn’t nearly so picturesque as those bogus faints that Bea Lyndon affected to weasel out of schoolwork.”

Rose placed a cool palm against Juliet’s forehead. “I was coming down the hall and heard the commotion,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “I’ve sent Hatchett to fetch the doctor.”

“Doctor?” Juliet elbowed into a sitting position; this time her head felt steadier. “But I’m perfectly fine. I’ve never fainted before in my life.”

Augusta peered intently at Juliet. “If my guess is correct, Your Grace, I would say you’re breeding.”

“Breeding?” Maud echoed, her nose wrinkled. “Why, of course Juliet has breeding. Her mother is a Beckburgh and her father is one of the richest—”

“Augusta means a baby,” Rose cut in. Focusing unsurprised eyes at Juliet, she added thoughtfully, “Her Grace carries the Radcliffe heir.”

The possibility flabbergasted Juliet. Her monthly time was overdue by more than a week, but she had attributed the delay to the upheaval in her life. Wilting into the pillows, she placed a hand over her stomach and tried to absorb an upsurge of joy.

“A baby!” Maud clapped her hands. “Won’t the duke be pleased! We must order the layette from Paris. I’ll help you start drawing up a list of prospective nursemaids—’’

“Slow down,” Juliet said, laughing weakly. “We should at least wait to hear the doctor’s verdict.”

Fleetwood shuffled through the doorway. Precariously balanced in his hands was a tray with a porcelain teapot. “A tisane, Your Grace. Marigold and honey, Mrs. Fleetwood’s finest restorative.”

Rose took the tray and set it on the desk. “Thank you. We could all use a cup.”

“Fleetwood,” said Augusta, “do stop in the library and tell Mr. Deverell that Her Grace is recovering.”

“Yes, madam.” The old retainer ambled out of the room.

Ravi bowed to Juliet. “Memsahib, please ring if I may be of further assistance.”

As he vanished into Kent’s bedroom, Juliet stared after Ravi and wondered what he thought of Carleton and Deverell blood mingling.

“That foreigner makes me shiver,” Maud whispered, plopping onto the bed. “Why didn’t he go with the duke?’’

“Kent needed him to supervise the start of the harvest.”

Maud fluffed her aquamarine skirts. “Well,” she declared, “this whole place is spooky. Last night I heard the most peculiar moaning outside. Do you suppose there’re ghosts?” She shivered in delicious fright.

“Poppycock,” snorted Augusta. “Most likely you heard the wind whistling around the eaves. Or one of the peacocks crying out.”

As Rose distributed the cups, she cast a sly glance at Augusta. “Or Punjab howling from a bad dream.”

“Punjab never howls.” Despite her icy words, Augusta perched gingerly on a chair, as if she were anxious to stay but uncertain of her welcome. Juliet wondered how the older woman felt, knowing if the baby was a boy, he would usurp Gordon’s place as heir.

“Still,” Maud confided, “I was glad for Miss Fane sleeping on the cot in the dressing room. Heaven knows what poor, unhappy souls haunt these ancient walls.”

Rose sank onto a footstool and studied her tisane. “This family has suffered many tragedies. My own sister was one of them.”

Juliet nearly choked on a swallow of bittersweet tea.

Maud leaned forward so far, she almost tumbled off the bed. “Juliet told me about your relation to Emily. What exactly happened to her?

Rose lifted eyes gone liquid dark with sorrow. “It was three years ago, August eleventh. There’s a door from my mother’s tower apartment leading onto the north parapet. Emily went out there, apparently to get a breath of fresh air. No one really knows how she fell. Kent found her lying on the rocks.”

Maud shuddered. “That’s the most gruesome tale I’ve ever heard.”

“My brother went half crazy over her death,” Rose said, a faraway frown wrinkling her brow. “He didn’t want to believe...”

A moment of silence spun out. Juliet felt her heart thumping faster. “Believe what?” she asked.

“That she killed herself,” Rose whispered.

Augusta stirred, her face grim. “Precisely. His Grace was so overwrought that he accused us all of murder.”

Chapter 15

Murder.
Tilting her face to the warm sunlight, Juliet found the notion too alien to ponder on such a perfect afternoon. Yesterday’s rain had washed the slanted glass roof of the greenhouse so that she had a clear view of the castle, the south tower looming like a gray guardian. The rear of the hothouse abutted the fortress, and with prudent use of the potbellied stove, winter crops would thrive in the sheltered spot.

Ancient vines twisted over wires strung along the glass walls. Despite years of neglect, the vines bore clusters of small green grapes that nestled like tenacious jewels within the bower of leaves. Already the fruit was beginning to turn a rich purple. The grapes would be ready in September to harvest for jam making, Juliet calculated.

Drawing on a pair of white cotton work gloves, she glanced down the long row of seed boxes. A mist of green covered the trays; new leaves like delicate fans unfurled to the sunshine. A miracle, like the tiny life growing within her.