Nooks & Crannies (11 page)

“Your parents, children,” the Countess of Windermere informed them, “have been keeping secrets from you.”

Money isn't everything, Tibbs, especially to those who already have it. That said, offering large sums to people can have a variety of effects: shock, suspicion, or pure joy, though the joyful ones ought to check their happiness, Tibbs. Nothing comes without attachments or a sacrifice of sorts, not even free money.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Bilious Banker

S
ecrets
, the Countess had said. The word echoed mutely around the table, overpowering the lingering smells of butter and roasted meats. Chandelier bulbs darkened, then fluttered back to life overhead, and the Countess eyed the flickering lights while sucking a small bit of lower lip into her mouth. “Storm,” she murmured.

Lifting a piece of paper from a file, she paused, eyes reading over some sort of report. “But before we get into your family secrets and
such
a lovely piece of fun as well, you may wish to know a bit about my own sad history.”

Edward lifted his spoon, swiping it across his neck and aiming a wink at Frances. “
Double murder
,” he whispered loudly.

Frances shot her hand in the air. “Your Ladyship, with all due respect and humility, I'd prefer if you'd skip over any double murder.”

The Countess stared blankly for a moment. “Are you talking about my husband and brother-in-law?” she said. “I've heard that rumor myself, though I'm not sure if I believe it. People slap the term ‘murder' on everything these days, don't they?” She stared at the page. “Are you all ready to listen?”

The room's silence seemed an acquiescence.

“Twelve years ago my son Thomas ran off and eloped with a woman of no education or connections, embarrassing me to the point of estrangement. She, of course, was with child when they ran away. He fully embraced the estrangement, the fool, changing his name to God knows what. A little over a year later, they both died in a boating accident. Their six-month-old child was reportedly onshore with an attendant who clearly had no clue about my son's background. She sent the babe to an orphanage, a fact that took years to confirm.”

Tabitha was reminded of Augustus Home.
That's where I'm headed. But there are far worse things than living in an orphanage, Pemberley.

• living in a toilet

• living in Barnaby Trundle's room

• living in a haunted manor with vengeful ghosts

“You see, when Thomas and his wife died, I immediately put people on the hunt for my grandchild, but the attendant had disappeared, and I couldn't find anyone who knew where the child was taken. Only recently have I received solid evidence.”

The Countess took a paper from the first file and read aloud. “The investigation has traced the point of abandonment to Basil House, London's Oldest Home for Orphaned Infants and Children.” Dropping the paper, she pointed around the room at each of the children in turn. “You six children were the only ones dropped off at Basil House in May of 1895, at approximately six months of age. You were all adopted by your charitable and childless parents shortly thereafter.” The Countess held both arms out and smiled hugely. “Tra-laa, children, surprise!”

An audible gasp, sounding very much like it came from Barnaby Trundle, echoed throughout the dining room.

Viola turned to Mr. and Mrs. Dale, dropping the spoon she'd been clutching with a harsh silver-on-china
clank
. “What was that? Mum? Dad?”

“I'm sorry, what?” Edward said pleasantly. His smile faded when the words sank in, and he turned to his mother and father. “What did she say? I'm . . . not your son, then? Well, whose son am I?”

Frances Wellington choked on her drink. Both hands flew to her neck, and her eyeballs became wide, white, straining things until she coughed up the water.

Oliver was silent, a slight grimace appearing on his face as though he'd had one too many dinner courses.

Tabitha did not gasp or ask questions or choke or grimace. Instead her hand drifted down to cup the lump in her apron, and she felt a slow compression occur within her. A sense of being squeezed and drained. Whether it was a healthy loss, like a snakebite being purged of poison (
I am not truly a Crum, Pemberley
), or a harsh loss, like feeling even smaller in the world (
I am not truly anyone at all, Pemberley
), she wasn't certain. Perhaps a bit of both.

“So you see, one of you is my heir.” The Countess lowered the files. “Now, because I've been desperately looking for my relation all these years, I set up a substantial trust fund long ago on the off chance that I would one day find my beloved grandchild.”

The room went abuzz with raised eyebrows and taken-aback facial expressions and the repeated words “trust fund,” and the Countess clapped her hands rather gleefully. “Oh lovely! You're all surprised and thrilled to pieces, I can tell! You six are the only possibilities, and I absolutely can't wait to find out which one of you is my grandchild, so I can spoil the dickens out of you. You can stay the entire summer next year! I'm really quite sentimental, you see, and find myself in the sad situation of having every member of my family dead.”

Pemberley scratched at Tabitha's tummy.
Yes, murdered, rather. At least some of them.

The Countess smiled an awkwardly large smile, a bit of lipstick clinging to one of her front teeth. “So it's happy news. For one of you, at least. You'll come and have visits with me to make up for all the lost years, and you'll come into the lovely trust fund.”

“And just how lovely is the trust fund?” asked Barnaby, wincing once again and glaring at his mother.

The Countess ignored him and dinged her glass repeatedly with a fork. “Cook! The champagne!”

Cook burst from the service entrance with a tray and gave every parent a flute of champagne and every child a tiny sherry glass full of bubbly drink.

“It's one hundred thousand pounds, loves.” The Countess lifted her flute. “Cheers!”

“One hundred thou—” Mr. Trundle coughed and snorted, and Barnaby stared at the Countess with rapt attention. The Applebys and Dales and Herringbones exchanged impressed glances. Even Viola, Tabitha noticed, was transfixed by so large a sum of money, much larger than any donation she'd ticked off on her fingers thus far.

Frances raised a hand. “One hundred thousand pounds. Are you perfectly serious?” She looked between her mother and father, considering them. “And when will I be visiting next?” She pasted an angelic smile below her eager eyes. “Pardon, but it
is
me, isn't it?”

“I'm afraid I don't know, dear. Otherwise I wouldn't have invited all of you, would I?” The Countess looked among the adults. “Let's be quite open and honest, parents. You must have been given some sort of special knowledge about the origin of your son or daughter.”

The parents exchanged puzzled glances, but no confession was made.

“No? Well, I'll give you some time to think about it, and then you can pass along any personal recollections to your children. Please do share everything with your child. For
their
sake. And for the sake of one hundred thousand pounds. I shall interview each child tomorrow, and we'll see what comes of it. For now, I'll just say once again how happy you've all made me by coming and being part of this blessed reunion!”

The Countess ordered another round of celebratory beverages to be poured. Everyone toasted and clinked and soon became rosy-cheeked with the wonder of the situation and the pondering of life possibilities that could be bought with an extra hundred thousand in one's pocketbook.

“One chance in six, then,” Mr. Trundle quipped. “I like those odds. Barnaby would thrive here, and we could get by without him quite easily for the summer. Or longer if you'd like.” Mr. Trundle either ignored or didn't see Barnaby's hurt expression. “But how will you know the right child for certain?” he asked the Countess, his expression more curious than concerned.

Yes, how will she know?

The Countess set her drink down carefully. “Obviously there will be some knowledge that the orphanage gave to the rightful heir's parents—a description of the mother and father that I might recognize, a story about their past that links the birth parents to Hollingsworth Hall, a token of some sort. And dear Mary will be assisting me to ensure that the correct heir is claimed.”

Mr. Crum snorted. “I doubt that a strokey maid would be able to identify much at all.”

Frances wrinkled her nose in Mary's direction. “And I doubt that she could judge which of us has countess blood.” She straightened her posture and smiled. “Besides, I should think it rather obvious who your heir is,
Grandmother
.” She glanced at Tabitha, Viola, Barnaby, and Edward. “Or at least to rule out who it
isn't
.”

“Not really a matter of  ‘countess' blood, is it? She wasn't born with a title,” Edward pointed out.

Yes, that's true. I do wonder at her history previous to her arrival at Hollingsworth Hall.

“Mary Pettigrew,” the Countess stated firmly, “has seen the child as an infant and knew my Thomas well. And Mary was well acquainted with the woman my son ran away with, which I was not.” She smiled at the maid. “Low class being acquainted with low class, and all that. I shall include her in the interview sessions to gauge her response to faces and such. Rest assured, by the end of the weekend, I will have a grandchild. Isn't it exciting?”

“To be perfectly clear, you've never seen this child?” Mr. Wellington asked. “And Basil House didn't keep records of who dropped off which baby?”

The Countess sifted through the first file and frowned at the paperwork. “Of course they kept records, but being an orphanage, there were times when children were simply left at the doorstep. That was the case for all the children here. So no, there are no formal records, other than drop-off dates.”

“There's just one thing, Your Ladyship,” Mrs. Appleby said delicately. “I don't know that you can just claim one of our children as a grandchild and demand extended visits.”

“You can claim Barnaby,” Mr. Trundle said eagerly. “You'll get no resistance from us.”

Lines of pressure formed around the Countess's mouth. She inhaled deeply, plucking her bag from the floor. “Everyone please calm down. I am a patroness of England, titled by my good friend, the
King
. Surely that's enough of a character reference.”

Tabitha wondered how good of a friend King Edward could be to the Countess, and whether he knew that she kept knives on her person at all times.

“But why didn't anyone tell us we were adopted?” Viola asked.

Mrs. Dale squeezed Viola's hand and looked at the other mothers with empathy. “I'm sure that some of you know the pain of not being able to carry a child. There's no shame in not wanting the whole world to know your business.”

Mrs. Appleby nodded and reached for her husband's hand. “We went to the Continent for a year,” she said quietly. “Lawrence came back to get Oliver and then we stayed in Europe until our boy was one. Not a soul except the woman at Basil House knew he wasn't ours.” She cleared her throat. “But he
is
ours now, and we'll need more time getting to know you before Oliver is left here for an entire summer.”

Mrs. Herringbone raised a hand. “I'm sorry, Your Ladyship, but I agree with the Applebys.” She turned to Edward and squeezed his hand. “Oh, my dear boy,” she said, gesturing to the Dales. “Our best friends in the world adopted a child at Basil House and suggested we do the same. We wanted you and Viola to grow up together, so we picked children of similar age. And we didn't tell either of you about the adoption because there can be a silly stigma associated with that sort of thing and it really doesn't matter. You are
my
son, Edward.”

The Countess fiddled with the stays on her handbag and gave an odd chirped laugh. “Oh, let's all just relax! Details can be worked out on Sunday. I'm a flexible woman, and I'm sure we'll all end up with exactly what we want. Cook! Dessert!” She smiled once more. “This is a celebration.”

“She's right,” Mr. Appleby said, patting his wife on the hand and nodding at Oliver. “We seem to have forgotten our manners, Your Ladyship.” He stood and raised his champagne. “Glasses up once more, everyone.” He waited for the room to follow suit. “To the Countess of Windermere!”

The room echoed him.

“To one hundred thousand pounds!” cried Mrs. Trundle.

Agnes walked in with a tray of gorgeous raspberry tortes, fruit sorbet, and pistachio ice. The Countess mingled among the parents and children, touching arms and patting heads, and once more the dining room became an enchanted place.