Chapter 15
Three days later, the family physician pronounced that Lord Hubbard would not die, then ordered him to remain in bed for two weeks. It was gratifying for everyone in the family to hear Richard complaining loudly about the bed rest.
Elda had summoned Oliver from London, and he arrived to find his robust father pale and abed. Though he’d put on a brave front when visiting his father, he broke down upon leaving Richard’s room, only adding to the heavy weight of guilt already on Alice’s shoulders. Her mother still had not spoken a word to her, and it was, frankly, driving her mad.
Three days of silence. Three days of wondering if she would ever be forgiven, if she would ever see Henderson again. It was only when Richard began complaining that the shroud of uncertainty was lifted from Tregrennar. For now, Papa would live.
Alice spent most of those three days in her room. She had not visited her father. The one time she’d ventured to his door, Papa’s valet, Mr. Tisdale, had quietly told her that her father was not up to seeing her. The fact that Christina and Oliver had visited with him earlier that day only made Alice’s heart ache all the more. If she could turn back time, she would, but she couldn’t. The first two days, all Alice could think of was that she would not be able to tell her father she loved him and that she was sorry before he died. By the third day, Alice had stopped her self-flagellation and was able to view what had happened with slightly less emotion. She concluded two things. One: Yes, she had been wrong to go out onto the terrace with Henderson. Two: Her actions had not caused her father’s heart attack. She could accept some blame, but not all of it, and the fact that her mother refused to speak to her, that her father would not even see her, fueled a growing anger. Of course, the knowledge that her mother and father had actually had relations prior to their marriage and that a pregnancy no doubt accelerated the wedding only added to that fuel.
One might think she’d been caught on the terrace with a married man. Naked.
A few hours after the physician departed, Alice was in her room reading when her mother entered quietly. She seemed subdued and so unlike the woman she’d been not four days prior. Alice longed to go to her, but sensed her embrace would not be welcome.
“Your father told me what happened, Alice. Once he is fully recovered, we will commence with your wedding arrangements to Lord Northrup, who thankfully is still willing to marry you.”
Alice could feel a blush bloom on her cheeks. “Lord Northrup knows what happened?”
“Of course not. No one knows but your father and me.”
“Then why must I marry Northrup?” She literally bit her tongue to stop herself from saying, It’s not as if I were foolish enough to lose my virginity. Oh, but it was a temptation that was difficult to resist.
“Because he has asked for your hand. Again. And your father agreed.”
Anger replaced concern so swiftly, Alice could feel her body heat with it. “Lord Northrup has seen Papa yet I was not allowed?”
Elda waved her hand as if that was inconsequential. “Lord Northrup wanted to be certain to do the correct thing, the proper thing, and be sure that he had consent in case your father did not get well.”
Alice opened her mouth to protest, but her mother’s steely look stopped her.
“You must make me a promise. You will never see Henderson Southwell again.”
This was her punishment for kissing a man? Marriage to a man she did not love and a promise to never see the man she did love? Everything inside Alice rebelled at the thought of how unfair it was.
“I’m sorry, Mama, but I cannot make such a promise. I love Henderson and he loves me.”
Elda’s eyes widened slightly and her mouth turned downward; then her face softened and Alice finally saw the mother she’d known all her life. She’d hardly recognized the one who’d walked through her door. “I’m certain you believe you do, but I must say that cannot be possible. He’s been gone for four years and you’ve hardly seen him since he’s returned. Yes, he is handsome and I understand there may be some allure to the forbidden, but you cannot be foolish.”
Elda sat down on the small vanity stool, her skirts rustling in such a familiar way, Alice’s heart ached. She wanted her lively smiling mother back, not this sad and stern and determined woman. “There are times in a mother’s life when she must make decisions for her children that are not popular, that may seem harsh. But I have no doubt that marriage to Mr. Southwell would not suit you. It matters not that he was once welcomed into our home. That welcome is no longer forthcoming. Do you understand me?”
Alice could feel the now-familiar ache in her throat. “No. I do not. It is unfair to punish us for doing nothing more than kissing. Are you blaming us for what happened to Father?” What had seemed a logical conclusion in her own mind, suddenly seemed outrageously unjust when her mother came to that same conclusion.
Elda smiled gently. “Not entirely. But he would not have gotten so gravely ill had he not seen the two of you together. Mr. Southwell was not acting like a gentleman.”
“And I was not acting like a lady. Mama, I love him and I was there of my own free will. If Father had not come along, I might have acted even more foolishly. Haven’t you ever done something you knew you should not?”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “He was not forcing himself on you?”
Letting out a small laugh, Alice said, “My God, no. No. Was that why Father was so upset—he thought Henderson’s advances were unwelcome? I can assure you, Mama, they were not. I’m not proud of that, but I would never want anyone to think ill of Henderson.”
“That changes nothing. Oh, Alice, can you not see how very inappropriate such a match would be? I like Mr. Southwell enough, but we’ve never met his family. We know nothing of them. Do you not see how this could be just as uncomfortable for them as it would be for us?”
“They are not indigents living on a poor farm. They are well-respected landowners who were able to send their grandson to Eton and Oxford. Goodness sakes, Mama, you have never been a snob.”
“My daughter has never wanted to marry so far beneath her.”
Her mother’s words stunned her. “How can you speak so of him? He was Joseph’s best friend.”
“Yes, he was. Against our better judgement, I would like to add. Alice, you are the grand—”
“—daughter of a duke and an earl. Yes, Mother, I know. It is not Henderson’s fault that he is who he is. He is a good man and I love him.”
Elda rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. “Doors would be closed to you, do you understand? People who have been friends with you your entire life, will no longer want you in their home. Is that what you want?”
“That wouldn’t happen—”
“I’ve seen it happen,” Elda said harshly. Taking a deep, calming breath, she said, “My cousin Beatrice married a grocer. I haven’t seen her in years. They’re living in some tiny house in Kent, scraping by, with a brood of children they cannot afford. Everything she had is gone, her friends, her family, her station in life. I will not see you throw away your life like that.”
“So this is about money? I’m sorry, Mother, because Lord Northrup doesn’t appear to be all that well-heeled. Lord Berkley hinted at a gambling problem.”
Elda stood suddenly. “I am not going to continue to argue with you, Alice. You cannot marry Mr. Southwell and that is that.”
Alice blinked at the anger her mother was displaying, but remained silent as Elda left the room.
“I am going to marry him, Mama,” she whispered after her mother had rather forcefully shut the door. She gave a small shrug, but one that held a world of defiance. “And I’m afraid there is nothing you can do about it.”
* * *
Sebastian’s fiancée, Cecelia Whitemore, lived in a modest home on the outskirts of St. Ives village but with a view of the Atlantic that took one’s breath away. The charm of the house, situated on a bluff and surrounded by cabbage trees and roses in full bloom, was ruined by the large black wreath adorning the door, a tribute to the man their daughter would never marry. Henderson stopped at the stone arbor, where a riot of roses obliterated the stone, and paused when he saw the obvious sign of mourning, the second such wreath he’d encountered in recent weeks. And as before, Henderson decided it was vital that he ignore it and continue with his interview. Perhaps it was insensitive of him, visiting Sebastian’s fiancée so soon after his death, but Henderson could not wait.
Henderson stepped onto the ancient stone step and turned the bell, a clever little design in the shape of a limpet shell, the sound overly cheerful given the black wreath. A man with diminutive spectacles and impressive muttonchops, speckled with a fair amount of gray, opened the door and looked at him curiously before turning and saying, “I have this, Mrs. Spratt.”
Henderson waited for the shadow of the woman to disappear before introducing himself. “Hello, sir. My name is Henderson Southwell and I was a friend of Sebastian Turner. I was wondering if I might speak with your daughter. I do realize this is a terrible time for her and your family, and I would not have disturbed her for anything had I not deemed this extremely important.”
“I am her father,” he said in a distinct Cornish accent, though Henderson had already guessed as much. “You are correct, Mr. Southwell, this is a terrible time for us. Do you mind telling me why you need to speak with my daughter?”
“I wanted to know if Sebastian had ever told her about a Mr. Stewart.”
Suddenly, the door opened wider, and Cecelia was there, her eyes wide. She was a pretty girl, with dark brown hair parted severely down the middle, but the style somehow suited her even features and pale, smooth skin. She looked to her father and back to Henderson, one hand still clutching the door as if she might fall if she let go. “We need to talk to him, Father,” she said.
Mr. Whitemore led him to a small, sunlit parlor with comfortable furniture and a fireplace of golden stone that dominated one wall. After indicating he should take a seat, Cecelia left to fetch her mother and Mr. Whitemore sat, silently, as they waited for the women to return. It was a damned uncomfortable minute, one in which Henderson looked about the room as if finding everything about it fascinating, while Mr. Whitemore stared at the carpet at his feet. When the women entered, Henderson sprang to his feet, nearly knocking his hat, which he’d placed beside him, to the floor.
After introducing him to her mother, Cecelia sat down serenely and stared at him with her calm, brown eyes. “Why did you ask about a Mr. Stewart?”
“This may seem a strange call, but Sebastian mentioned this Mr. Stewart when I saw him last, the night before he passed. He asked me if Joseph Hubbard had ever mentioned a Mr. Stewart to me. It struck me as odd because he said if Joseph had, I would certainly remember it. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I don’t know who Mr. Stewart is and I told him so, and that was the end of the conversation. And then, three days ago, at the John Knill ball, I ran into Gerald Grant. He was one of the lads who was sometimes part of our group. When I saw Gerald, he asked me if Sebastian had spoken of a Mr. Stewart that last night before he passed.”
Cecelia looked impossibly pale. “You truly don’t know who Mr. Stewart is?”
Henderson looked at each person in the room, completely baffled why they were, to a one, looking at him as if they were seeing a ghost.
“Mr. Stewart died years ago,” Mr. Whitemore said, his deep voice sounding overly loud in the small room. “A tree limb fell on him as he was riding beneath it.” Mr. Whitemore looked at his daughter and nodded.
“Everyone knew the story,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Mr. Stewart owned a shop in the village and was well-liked by everyone. I even recall going to his funeral. Everyone went. No one knew what really happened. But I know because Sebastian told me.”
* * *
Five boys were in the forest that day, building a fort in an oak tree. Joseph, Peter Jeffreys, Tristan Cummings, Sebastian Turner and Gerald Grant. Gerald was the youngest, only twelve years old and trying to prove to the older boys that he was worthy of their company. It had been Joseph’s idea to build the fort, something that didn’t surprise Henderson, for he was always coming up with some adventure, even when they were older and in university. Henderson could almost picture them, boys on the cusp of being men, likely competing to see who was the strongest of the bunch, heaving up thick limbs high into the tree to build their fortress in the sky.
And then there was Gerald, too young to be with boys who had already started growing peach fuzz on their faces, who already were beginning to develop the muscles required to handle such heavy branches. He’d just been a kid who was trying to prove himself. The older boys teased him as older boys will; he was such an easy target and his face would get so red when they made him angry. He grabbed the largest of the limbs, told the other boys he needed no help, and so they sat back and watched, likely shouting encouragement or needling him or doing what boys will do when they’re all together having a grand time.
Gerald had almost gotten that branch up to the fort, gaining the grudging admiration of his friends, when they heard the soft sound of hooves on the dirt road below them. Peter, who wasn’t even supposed to be out of the house, begged the other boys to remain quiet as Gerald hung on to that branch with all his might. Sebastian was watching Gerald, ready to give assistance if it looked like the younger boy needed help, and he swore to Cecelia that Gerald simply let go, just as Mr. Stewart was beneath him.
“He watched Gerald’s hands open up,” Cecelia said, demonstrating with her own hands. “But Sebastian could never be completely certain, not certain enough to ever say anything. That branch fell on Mr. Stewart and killed him on the spot. The boys all swore they would never tell and they never did. But it ate at Sebastian and he just couldn’t take the guilt anymore, so he told me. And now…”
“They’re all dead,” Henderson said, and Mrs. Whitemore pushed a handkerchief against her mouth to stifle a sob. “Have you told anyone what you know?”
Cecelia shook her head quickly. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me. That no one will believe me and he’ll kill me.”
“Don’t tell a soul, Miss Whitemore. I’ll make certain you are not harmed, but the authorities must be told.”
“No, please don’t,” Cecelia said. “We’re the only ones who know. If you were able to determine that I might know, then surely Gerald will too.”
Henderson smiled gently. “He can’t kill everyone in St. Ives. I swear to you, no one will ever know where I got my information.”
Miss Whitemore did not look convinced, but Henderson did not know what else he could say to her to relieve her mind. What was clear to him was that Gerald very likely had knowingly killed four men to protect his terrible secret. Henderson wanted to be sure he didn’t kill again.
Once he departed the Whitemores’, Henderson went directly to Costille House to ask Lord Berkley for this advice, for he wasn’t familiar with St. Ives’ constabulary, or even if they had one. Having been the subject of a murder investigation, Lord Berkley would at the very least know with whom he should speak. He arrived at Costille in the late afternoon as the mellowing sun was hitting the large building’s façade, softening it and almost making it look welcoming. The sprawling estate held little appeal to Henderson, who preferred more modern design, and he didn’t fully understand Lord Berkley’s obsession with the place. Likely it had something to do with tradition and heritage, two concepts Henderson had little experience with.
Berkley’s butler, looking more harried than usual, ushered him in hastily. Somewhere deep in the house was a terrible racket, and this was where the butler led him, practically pushing him inside the door of what appeared to be a music room. The instruments, a harp, a piano, and a row of—my God, the most beautiful violins Henderson had ever seen in one location—were untouched. But Berkley was ripping ornate paneling from the room, along with thick, floral wallpaper, swearing like a seaman.
“He doesn’t care for the décor,” the butler whispered before backing out of the room and leaving Henderson with what appeared to be a madman. Berkley was in his shirtsleeves, his hair a wild mass about his head, his shirt clinging to him from sweat. He wrenched an entire section of paneling from the wall, letting it fall with a violent bang, then stood back, his head hung low.
“Bitch!” He yelled so loudly, Henderson actually jerked back in surprise.
Henderson contemplated slowly backing from the room and pretending he’d never entered, but decided to simply let his presence be known. “My lord,” he said into the silence that followed.
Berkley started laughing, then turned, shaking his head. “I think, having seen me at my worst, we are now on a first name basis. You may call me Augustus, or Gus as my friends in America used to do.”
Henderson raised a brow. “Gus. I fear I cannot be quite that informal with you, sir. And you may call me Henderson, of course. If you don’t mind my asking, what has made you so angry?”
“There was a mural here from the fifteenth century and now it is gone. My God, she hated me.” He let out another laugh, but this one was filled with bitterness and anger. He clapped his hands loudly, as if doing so ended whatever dark mood he was in. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Henderson?”
He smiled. “I have solved a murder, actually four murders, and I need your help.”