An Unnatural Daughter: A Dark Regency Mystery (5 page)

Tristan could tell I was uneasy, and after about ten minutes he lay down his sketchpad and picked up a newspaper instead.

‘Would you like me to read you the headlines?’ he asked. ‘It’s a day or two out of date I’m afraid, but that’s what happens when you don’t live in London. Fellow at the inn down the lane always lets me have his. He gets them the day after print and always has a spare copy he gives me. I painted his wife once so he lets me have them free of charge.’

I swallowed, hard. Two days was long enough for my description to be in the paper. Certainly long enough for my husband’s death to have been reported.

‘Please,’ I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray my worries.

Tristan read through the headlines, skipping over anything related to business and elaborating on the more amusing stories. He seemed to enjoy dwelling on tales of crime and murder, but more than that he read out all the theatre reviews, peppering the articles with his own humorous comments. Once he had passed the first few pages, I was able to relax a little. The murder of a rich man would surely be near the front of the newspaper. That meant I had at least one more day before I was found out. It was surprising, but I was glad.

Meanwhile, Tristan had finished with the paper and was laid on his front as he carried on expounding the various virtues of some of the plays he had seen last time he was in London. I noticed when he picked up his sketchpad and pencil again, but I felt a lot more at ease than before. As long as he was speaking I could persuade myself he wasn’t looking at me so closely after all.

I don’t know how long we sat there, but the sun was still high in the sky when Edwina waved to us from the kitchen window, and beckoned us inside.

‘Mrs Hudson is here, darling,’ she said to Tristan, before tucking her arm in mine conspiratorially and whispering, ‘Cassandra’s mother, that is. Don’t worry, I’ve told her the very barest of details about your situation, and she’s promised not to probe you about it. Now do come and sit with us, won’t you?’

Mrs Hudson was a plumpish woman who sat like a large jelly, and she smiled very kindly and patted my hand as she beckoned me to sit by her and pour her tea.

‘And are you well, Tristan?’ she asked through a mouthful of sponge cake.

‘Tolerably, tolerably.’ Tristan answered in kind, spitting slightly as he did so. I was fascinated. Ridiculous though it was, I hadn’t thought of him as a being that would eat. And certainly not one who would eat cake.

‘Have you heard anything from Damien?’ Mrs Hudson glanced at me briefly, as she rolled forward in her seat expectantly, her russet curls bobbing. ‘That’s my son, you know,’ she said as an aside to me.

‘Yes. He sent a letter.’ Tristan nodded. ‘Says he’s well, but his quarters are somewhat cramped. Dusty. But he’s getting by.’

‘There have been no incidents? Nothing to speak of?’ Mrs Hudson’s voice was quite shrill now, and she looked worried.

‘No, nothing. I’m sure he’ll do fine for the foreseeable future. You know what it’s like at sea, though. Just months of waiting.’

‘Especially now the war’s over, I imagine,’ I said. The party as a whole swung round to look at me. ‘Although I don’t know anything about the navy,’ I continued quietly, feeling embarrassed.

‘Indeed, indeed.’ Edwina smiled at me. ‘That’s what I hear, anyway. Damien always managed to make it sound so exciting, didn’t he? But he probably just skipped to the bits we would be interested in. Such a nice boy. You’d like him, Alice.’

‘You must be very proud of him,’ I said to Mrs Hudson, who eyed me with a good deal of favour.

‘I just wish he would come home,’ she said. ‘But he will be off, doing this and that. Yet I can’t help but worry. You just don’t know – you can never know what he’ll end up doing or where he’ll be. I just hope, I pray, that he stays safe.’

A hush fell over the room for a moment before Mrs Hudson continued, her voice thick with emotion.

‘After all, I have already lost one child. My poor Cassandra. Oh, I’m sorry Tristan, I know you feel it too, but some days, I just expect her to run in through the door with her hair still in braids, telling me about something you and Damien had done. I curse the day she ever met Gabriel Raynor. And now he has the gall to marry again. I must say, I pray for his new wife.’

I might have gasped. I don’t know. I tried not to make a sound, but all I was aware of was my husband’s name, hanging in the room, hanging over me. Edwina said something, and the conversation moved on to cheerier things. At least, I assumed it did. My gaze flickered from person to person, round and round the room, desperately looking for some sign that nobody knew who I was. That they knew my husband was shocking in itself. That he had married before – surely I should have been told that. Yet these people had known. This woman prayed for my safety without knowing who I was. I needed to find out how Cassandra had died. But not now. For now I concentrated on breathing.

CHAPTER 6

Miss Raynor’s Room

Wherever she walked, Mrs Raynor creaked. I couldn’t determine if it was the thick leather of her shoes, the old wood of her cane, or the floorboards beneath her. She looked as though she’d glide across the floor, like I think debutantes are supposed to, and when she walked, she seemed as surprised as me that she did not. Before the first evening was over, I had learned to emulate the maids who had been set to cleaning the floors. At the first hint of a creak they scurried away to darker corners where they could escape notice.

On the first full day I decided to explore the house, but only in a timid way that meant I never strayed into rooms or looked beyond doors that weren’t already open. It could never be home to me, that I knew already. It wasn’t only that everyone in there resented my presence, but also a feeling I seemed to get from the house itself. A malevolence that told me I wasn’t welcome there. Something about the light. It twisted through the windows to a dirty yellow that made everything it touched seem stained.

I had paused in the hallway of the first floor and was looking out over the garden. I had not dared to raise the idea of gardening with my husband, and it certainly hadn’t been among the duties Mrs Raynor had listed for me on that awful meeting in her sitting room on my first day. Instead I stared at the razor sharp borders and perfect topiary, and thought wistfully of my haphazard jungle of canes and the way the paths smelled just after it rained.

Then I heard her, the slow creak of her step in the distance. I froze, hardly daring to move or even breathe, wishing only that she would pass me by. Slowly, ever so slowly the creaking became louder and closer, and then I heard her voice, clear and loud, hailing one of the maids.

‘You there, where do you think you’re going? Get back to that bucket, girl. And tell me where Fleur is.’

She infused so much disdain and dislike into the single syllable of my name that I could not bear to meet her again. I panicked and ran around the nearest corner, my soft-soled slippers not making a sound on the thickly carpeted floors. I came to a wall at the end of a corridor, a dead end, and I heard the creaking, magnified in my mind to louder than my own heartbeat, and all in a rush I tried the handle of the door nearest to me. It opened, and in a moment I was inside, my back to the closed door, trying not to breathe too loudly. I heard her creak around the corner, curse me, then curse the maid. I tried not to feel too badly for her.

As the fog of panic cleared from my brain, I realised I was in a bedroom. A girl’s bedroom. It could not belong to my hostess, not only because I had seen her in her apartments already, and they lay on the other side of the house, but also because this room had a soft, loved air about it.

The walls were hung with a green silk, the colour of oak leaves in spring. Rather than the austere grandness of my room or Mrs Raynor’s, this was a bedroom of someone with a kinder temperament, I was sure. I felt comfortable almost immediately, notwithstanding the discomfort one feels when invading the personal space of another. I stepped away from the door and ran my eyes over the tiny ornaments of field mice, the well-used silver dressing table set, and the watercolour studies of plants that hung on the walls. The room could almost have been designed for me. The only piece out of place was the bed, which was one of the same sort of hulking monstrosities that marred my own room.

But who could it belong to? A sister, I assumed, given the feminine accoutrements and the large china doll that sat on the window seat. A sister who had left to marry some time before, years, if the thick layer of dust that covered everything was anything to go by. It struck me as queer that her room was so far away from the rest of the family, and that nothing had been touched. If her belongings had not been packed up, surely they would have been dusted? Yet I knew nothing of the habits of other people. Perhaps this was what families did when a daughter they loved left home. I wondered if my tiny room at my father’s house would end up in the same state. I imagined it would, although not out of love.

Then it struck me that perhaps she had died. The room seemed to grow cold at that thought, and I was reminded anew that I was trespassing. It would be far worse to be discovered here by Mrs Raynor than to be found dallying in the hall or the garden. I hardly dared to leave, and became convinced for a moment that she was outside, waiting for me. I approached the door, and edged my eye towards the empty keyhole. I don’t know what I expected, other than perhaps to be poked in the eye by a key, but the small section of the hall that I could see was clear, and after listening out for any sounds for a few minutes, I judged it safe to leave. With one last look over the room I wished was mine, I eased the door open, and fled.

CHAPTER 7

Regarding Cassandra

Given time alone to reflect upon the situation, I came to the conclusion that Gabriel had probably loved Cassandra very much. Perhaps I was quick to judge the girl who had, in my opinion, duped and discarded Tristan, but I imagined she had treated Gabriel with the same disdain. I remembered he had said that as a woman, I was bound to lie, and how he fully expected our marriage to be an unhappy one. His bitterness surely stemmed from an unhappy marriage to his previous wife. If only I knew the nature of her death! Then I might be able to understand how he could treat me so cruelly. But I could never ask the kind Mrs Hudson, surely as different from her daughter as night to day.

Whatever Cassandra had done to Gabriel, it was unacceptable that he would treat me as he had. I wished now that I had known, that I had not killed him, that we could have overcome his feelings against me – against women.

Sitting in bed in my lovely, floral room, in a borrowed nightgown trimmed with lace and hearing Edwina bustling about in the next room, it was easy to look back at my married life and imagine that it had not been as bad as I thought. That with a little more effort on my part, I could have become as a daughter to Mrs Raynor, and as a real and accepted wife to Gabriel. He who had been let down by the duplicitous and cruel Cassandra, and had been scarred by her acquaintance. If I had tried a little harder, maybe I could have been the woman all wives were supposed to be. Maybe I was the exception, and had expected too much, from not knowing what to expect at all.

I shifted, uncomfortable, remembering again the sound the candlestick had made as it met his skull. I buried my face into my pillow to try and block out the images of blood and lifeless eyes. As I did so, my neck twisted and the thick lines of scabbing twinged and pulled. Then I remembered the rest of those three days, and threw myself onto my back, gasping for air as the walls seemed to close in around me again and I felt the press of the metal on my nose and the tang of it on my tongue.

It passed, like it always did, but I simply didn’t know what to think, and fell into a disturbed sleep in the early hours of the morning, utterly miserable.

I woke the next morning to sunny, bright skies, which did not match my mood one bit. I considered taking it as an omen that things would get better, but doubted that God would take the trouble to reassure a murderer. There was probably someone else out there who had earned those sunny skies.

After breakfast, which I took with Edwina and Tristan for the first time, I made my way directly to the herb garden. In the guilt and fever that had followed my arrival at Edwina’s house, I had forgotten the fact that there was the possibility of a child. My stomach churned as I hobbled through the borders, scanning the plants for what I sought. I hoped it was merely revulsion at the thought of carrying Gabriel’s child rather than the first pangs of sickness.

The herbs were fragrant in the early morning sun, and I closed my eyes and ran my fingertips along the purple heads of the chive plants. In the garden things were simple. I was alone, and didn’t have to wrestle with how I felt. I was in a constant storm of emotion. Guilt battled with fear, sorrow battled with righteous indignation. Here, at least, there was peace. The garden was the only place I wasn’t afraid to be alone.

I found what I was looking for and squirreled it away in my pocket. Perhaps it was too late. I had only read about it, and my knowledge of conception was purely academic, excepting those minutes with my husband.

My feelings towards the possibility of a child were in as much turmoil as my feelings regarding most everything else. Mostly I despised the idea, yet as I stood in the garden, I felt a pang of longing for a person who would love me unconditionally, and who would be with me where nobody else would. But it was for the best. My resolve must remain firm.

My most pressing needs dealt with, I fetched the trug that Edwina kept her gardening tools in and set to pulling out weeds. The raised borders really were in a terrible state. I guessed that Tristan had been the last to weed, as the soil seemed to be full of broken roots. Picking them out was therapeutic, though, at least until he came out of the house and sat on the wall a few metres away, his sketchbook and pencils under his arm.

Just like the day before, I froze and immediately become conscious of my movements. And just like the day before, he pulled out a newspaper and began to read to me. His voice hummed over the quiet birdsong, over the whispering of the trees, and once again he did not read out Gabriel’s name. I wondered how the family would react when the news broke that Gabriel was dead. Would they be pleased? Or would they bow to the convention of never speaking ill of the dead, a strange practice when concerned with one who they thought to be so evil.

It seemed I was to have another day free of persecution – although as time passed I found that I would rather be put out of my misery once and for all. It was now almost a week since Gabriel had died. Surely I should have heard by now. Tristan’s voice was soothing, though. It was higher pitched than my father’s and Gabriel’s had been, and when he spoke he seemed to be reciting couplets or reading verse. I had occasionally heard my father do so, but Tristan could make anything sound like Shakespeare. It was most peculiar, and added to my feeling that he wasn’t quite a real person.

After he had finished reading the paper, he fell into silence, and I took the opportunity to tentatively introduce the subject of Cassandra.

‘I liked Mrs Hudson,’ I said.

‘I’m glad. She’s a good sort of person.’

‘It’s a shame,’ I continued carefully, ‘that she’s had such sadness in her life.’

Tristan hummed noncommittally.

‘Is she quite alone?’ I continued, pressing further.

‘Yes, her husband died in the war. Terribly unlucky, he took a bullet to the chest at Waterloo. So close to seeing the whole thing through. Terrible shame. Damien – her son, he did well though. Got himself a few tidy promotions – war’s good for a fellow’s career in that respect.’

‘I wonder if he’ll visit her soon. She must be lonely, now he’s the only family she has left.’

Tristan shifted his position on the wall and squinted at me. The sun set his golden hair gleaming like a halo, and highlighted his skin to pure, alabaster white. He was like a porcelain figure, and my heart beat a little harder at the sight of him.

‘She visits Mother once a week, at least, and Mother always returns the favour. I shouldn’t think she feels too badly – she’s got other friends and she always loves to gossip. All women that age do, I find. Mind you, I only really know her and mother.’ He furrowed his brow a little, marring the perfect smoothness of his face. ‘And Cassie would have left home by now anyway. Well, she already had.’

His face fell into a mask of perfect sadness, and I hated myself for bringing it up. I knew I could never ask him how she, the love of his life had died while married to another. It would be impossible and callous. I was capable of inflicting suffering and cruelty on Gabriel and his family, but I found I could not act in such a way to Tristan. It would be like bullying a child. I would just have to try and find out about Cassandra from Edwina.

An awkward silence hung over us after that, and it wasn’t until several minutes later when he made some commonplace remark about the weather that we fell back into easy conversation. Just as before, I gradually relaxed into the idea of his drawing me, and almost forgot what he was even doing.

We must have sat together for at least half an hour, and I had almost cleared the whole border before we heard a rustling in the tall bushes at the edge of the garden.

‘I say,’ Tristan leaned forward and squinted. ‘I think there might be a dog in there or something.’

The bushes rustled and shook ominously for several long seconds, before they parted and a figure shambled out. Small and pale, with dark hair lined with grey, a man stumbled onto the grass. His face was creased as though he was in pain, and his shirt hung almost to his knees, untucked from his trousers, creased and smeared with mud. His face was deeply scratched and stained with blood, and his right eye was marred with a large purple bruise.

‘What the hell?’ Tristan leapt to his feet. I could hide it no longer.

‘It’s my father,’ I said.

As Tristan ran to his aid, I found myself unable to move. With Father there and in such a state, and there being no mention of the death in the newspaper, it crossed my mind for the first time that Gabriel might still be alive. As I watched, Father’s knees gave way and he fell forwards onto the grass.

Edwina was alerted by Tristan’s cries, and raced from the house with an energy I had not imagined she possessed. As Tristan struggled to lift Father’s body, she helped me to my feet and supported me into the house. The idea that Gabriel may not have died – that I may not have killed him, had stunned me. But the weight of guilt lifted from my soul at that was replaced by the guilt and fear of what had happened to my father. Whether Gabriel lived or not, someone wanted revenge.  And if Father had found me, I doubted it would be long before anyone else did.

Father was put to bed in the room between Edwina’s and mine. I was left alone in the sitting room while he was seen to, and I tried not to panic. The tapestry on the wall didn’t seem so comforting any more. I put my throbbing head in my hands as my brain swam with possibilities and confusion. I had to get away. I had to get Father and myself out of there and hope that would remove Tristan and Edwina from the danger that followed us.