Cut to the Quick (43 page)

“The wedding will have to be postponed for a decent interval,” Craddock was saying. “I understand that The question is, how long?”

“This is no time to speak of weddings,” said Sir Robert “We might as well set a new date and be done with it, so the plans and invitations can be changed.”

“Papa,” said Maud, “there isn’t going to be any wedding.” “Don’t try my patience, girl. There was going to be a weddmg before all this happened, and there’s going to be one now. Nothing’s changed. I still have Colonel Fontclair’s letters.”

“No, you don’t, Papa. I have them, and I’m giving them back to Colonel Fontclair, because they belong by rights to him.”

She opened the family Bible. From inside a tear in the worn leather binding, she pulled out some half-dozen sheets of yellowed parchment. She ran to Colonel Fontclair and put them in his lap.

Craddock sprang toward the colonel to seize them back. Guy and Hugh jumped up with one accord and barred his way They mounted

guard in front of Geoffrey, daring Craddock to come any closer Craddock stood balked, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard through his nostrils. His eyes slewed round to Maud. “How did you get those letters?”

“I— I took them from the cabinet in your study at home.” Craddock began tearing at his neckcloth. Fronrinside his collar, he pulled out an iron chain with three keys hanging from it. He thrust them at Maud, brandished them in her face. ”1 have all my keys! How could you have got the cabinet open?”

“One of them isn't your key, Papa. It's the key to my jewelry case. I hoped you wouldn’t notice. All the keys in our house look so much alike. I hoped that, as long as you had three keys on your chain, you wouldn’t think to look at any of them closely.”

“You planned this whole business! You stole my key, broke into my cabinet—!”

“I bad to. I hated doing it—I felt so guilty and deceitful, you can’t know. That chamomile tea I brought you, the night before I went to London—I put laudanum in it. I remembered the time you had the toothache—how you took laudanum, and it made you sleep so soundly we could hardly wake you in the morning. After you drank the tea and went to bed, I came back to your room and— and exchanged the keys.

“When Miss Pritchard and I got to London, she went to bed early, and I went to your study and took the letters from the steel cabinet. I wasn’t sure what to do with them. I was afraid my maid would find them if I hid them among my clothes. Finally I decided to hide them in Mama s Bible. I felt she would have understood what I was doing—that it was for your good as much as anyone’s.” “For my good! That’s rich!”

“Yes, Papa! I know you had your heart set on this marriage, but it wouldn’t have made you happy. All your life, you’d know the Fontclairs made you stoop to doing something wrong and unjust And when you do a wrong to people, you’re bound to them forever You’d never have got free.”

“Since you think so highly of freedom,” Craddock snarled, “I’ll give it to you! And it’ll be the last thing I give you. Hear me,

Maud: From this day on, never come near me, never knock at my door, never send me word if you live or die! These people are your friends—well and good. Look to them to keep you!”

He strode to the door, then turned and shot one last look around at the Fontclairs. “I’m leaving for London as soon as my man can pack for me. What becomes of this one”—he jerked his head at Maud—“is your business now.” He went out, slamming the door.

Maud’s legs buckled under her. The Fontclairs, like statues come to life, flocked around her, easing her into a chair and holding hartshorn under her nose. Lady Fontclair tucked a pillow behind her. Geoffrey stammered out his thanks. Guy wrung her hand almost too vigorously. Sir Robert made a sort of speech.

Hugh knelt down and put a footstool before her. It was all he could do not to pour out his feelings. But she must not think he was declaring himself in a momentary burst of gratitude. And she looked so wan and exhausted, it would be cruel to put her through any more shocks or upheavals, of any kind.

Julian slipped out unnoticed. Soon after, MacGregor found him in the garden, absently plucking dead leaves and crumbling them to powder. “I just heard the news about Miss Craddock giving the colonel back his letters. That’s a very plucky young lady. If Hugh Fontclair’s got any sense, he’ll go through with the marriage, blackmail or no blackmail.”

“I don’t think he’ll need any persuading.”

“And the girl—she’ll have him, I suppose?”

“I don’t doubt it.”

MacGregor looked at him more closely, taking in his subdued manner and pale, averted face. “What are you going to do, now all this is over?”

“It’s not quite over. There has to be an inquest into Miss Fontclair’s death, and as the last person to see her alive, I shall have to testify. That’s the only reason I’m still here—if I had the choice, I’d take myself off at once. The Fontclairs must be longing to see the last of me, though they’re all being frightfully decent, and keep urging me to stay. I suppose it’s only fair I shouldn’t be allowed to decamp in the night, but should have to stay and see the consequences of what I’ve done.”

“You re not sorry you did it?’*

“I don’t know Isabelle is dead, the Fontclairs are reeling with grief and shame Would it have been so terrible if the crime had never been solved? Isabelle would have punished herself, all her life, as bitterly as the law could have punished her, and the innocent needn’t have suffered.”

“Listen to me.” MacGregor laid a hand on his shoulder “You feel this way because you’re here with the people mourning for Isabelle and feeling the consequences of her crime. To them, the price of truth comes very high. They’re certainly not going to have any love for whoever brought it to light. Remember what Milton said about truth? He said it’s like a bastard child: nobody wants it, and nobody has anything good to say about whoever gave it birth But there are people like me, who think truth is always worth finding out for its own sake, and to those people, you’re a hero, Kestrel ” “Don’t be absurd!” said Julian sharply

“Can’t take a compliment, can you?” MacGregor chuckled “Not about anything important, anyway. If I said I admired the shine on your boots, you’d preen like a peacock, but let me suggest you’re a fine man, as well as a fine gentleman, and you can’t fend me off fast enough ”

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to be ungracious Somehow it was too much, to hear it just now ”

“Never mind I’ve got an idea Why don’t you come and stay with me till the inquest is over? Longer, if you like, though I shouldn’t think a smart young fellow like you would want to be stuck at a country doctor’s, with the London season at its height.” “The London season be hanged. I should like nothing better than to stay with you. Thank you ”

“Hmph—well—that’s settled, then Don’t expect any luxuries mind I live simply, and I’m not changing my ways on your account I don’t drink, smoke, play cards, or entertain company I have mf dinnei* at two o’clock, same as I did before it got to be the fashion to dine at night, and I’m up every morning by six I don’t suppose you’d get up at that hour if the house were on fire *

Julian rallied “I like that hour very well I often st&y up all night so as not to miss it

“Dicing and drinking and God knows what else, I'll be bound. How you can fritter away your time, waste the brains God gave you lounging in clubs or prinking in front of a looking glass—”

Still scolding, MacGregor started back toward the house. Julian went with him. He found he rather liked being lectured. His friends who complained of tyrannical fathers and nattering old aunts little knew how dreary it was to go through life with no one to disapprove of you, and nothing but your own weary sense of self-discipline to stop you from doing exactly as you liked.

*

Maud and Julian met in the music room before Julian left Bellegarde.

“Miss Craddock, you are magnificent.'' He kissed her fingertips. “No, how silly,'' she said, blushing.

“I'm serious. I thought some of my own stratagems were clever, but you've knocked spots off me. I cede the palm to a master.*' She smiled. “You see now why I couldn’t tell you what I was going to do in London. I was afraid of bringing down Papa's anger on anyone -who seemed to be helping me. Papa was already— I mean, he had silly ideas about— about you and me. I'm sorry if he said anything to offend you.*'

“I shouldn't call being accused of winning your heart an offence. I should call it a crown of laurels.”

He smiled into her eyes. Her heart fluttered. For the first time, she asked herself if she had been honest with Hugh and her father when she said she cared for Mr. Kestrel only as a friend. If she had not met Hugh first—

She stopped herself. She must not think along those lines. To divide her heart was to destroy it; she could not bear ambiguity in love. Anyway, she did not think Mr. Kestrel was in love with her, or likely to be. She was too simple—too peaceful. He needed the kind of woman who would baffle and bedevil him.

She felt herself blushing and looked away. “Papa's gone, you know. He left for London about an hour ago. The Fontclairs have been wonderfully kind to me. They've invited me to stay on at Bellegarde as long as I like I mustn't outstay my welcome, though.

It would be different if I were—if Mr. Fontclair and I were still engaged. But that’s all over now, Do you think I might find work as a governess? I know I’m awfully young, but I can’t think of any other way to earn a living. Perhaps Miss Pritchard could advise me.” “Miss Craddock, I think you’d make an enchanting governess. But somehow, I don’t think it's on the cards.”

*

“I'm sorry you’re leaving,” said Philippa. “I haven’t half finished telling you things.”

“It might be just as well to save something for the next time we meet,” Julian pointed out.

“But that won't be for a long time, will it? Mama and Papa won’t want to go to town, after everything that’s happened, and I don’t suppose you’ll come to visit us here again.”

“That might be awkward,” he admitted. “At least for the time being.”

“I hoped you’d come often, till you were quite one of the family. And then, when I was old enough, you might like to marry me. I shall have money, you know, and I am a. Fontclair.”

“If I were you, I should wait for a husband who cared for something besides my pocketbook and my pedigree.”

“I don’t think anybody would marry me for myself. I’m eccentric, and I always say the wrong thing, and I’m not pretty, like Josie. I have a horse face. I heard Cook say so.”

“The other day I found three peas in the raspberry trifle, which suggests to me that Cook is remarkably nearsighted.”

“Do you think there’s any chance I might be going to be pretty?”

“Being pretty is no great matter. Any young lady with bright eyes and passable teeth can claim that much. Better to be clever, quick, and intrepid—to charm with your mind and enchant with your wit—in short, to be the one radiant Circe in a season of dreary Helens.”

“Could I do that?”

“I have no doubt of it.” He lifted his brows “I hope you don’t presume to question my judgement on a matter of taste*”

"No,” she said slowly. “You are supposed to know about those things.” She pondered. “I shall be eighteen in seven years. I suppose you’ll have forgot all about me by then.”

“It’s you who’ll have forgot about me,” he said lightly.

“Oh, no.” Philippa shook her head. “I have a very long memory.”

The Last Piece of the Puzzle

Julian adjusted to life at MacGregor’s better than MacGregor had predicted. To rise at six in the morning was beyond him, but he usually managed to be up and about by nine. He found plenty to occupy him while MacGregor was seeing patients. He perused anatomy books, looked at bits of hair and bone under a microscope, and listened to his heart through a stethoscope—a wooden cylinder held to his ear, with the other end against his chest.

In the evenings, he played the harpsichord. He had been surprised to find such a dainty instrument at MacGregor’s. With its slender frame and delicately painted panels, it could only have belonged to a woman. "It was my wife's,” MacGregor explained. "I ought to have sold it long since—it’s no earthly use now—but I never could make up my mind to part with it." He added, "She loved music.”

"I didn’t know you'd been married."

"No reason you should. She died more than twenty years ago. A fever took her off, and our son, too."

They said no more on the subject. But every evening Julian played the harpsichord for an hour or two, and MacGregor left open the door of whatever room he was in, to hear the music.

*

The verdict at the inquest was that Isabelle took her life while the balance of her mind was disturbed. The coroner’s jury needed only a few minutes to reach their decision. It was hard enough on Isabelle’s family that she had confessed to murder. No one wanted to heighten her guilt, and their shame, with a finding of deliberate suicide.

The Fontclairs passed the rest of that day very quietly. Maud, listening to the muted conversations around her, thought how sad it was that no one had been close to Isabelle. They were not mourning her loss so much as the fact that they had not really known her, or had the smallest inkling of the anguish that was eating her away.

Next morning, Maud went for a walk in the park of Bellegarde with one of the dogs, a lively red and white setter. It had rained earlier, but now rays of sunlight were finding their way through the clouds. A playful wind tugged at the brim of her bonnet and tangled her skirt around her legs.

“It’s blustery, isn’t it?” said Hugh.

Maud spun around. “Oh— Mr. Fontclair. I didn’t see you.”

“Would you rather I hadn’t come?”

“No.” But she felt bashful and confused. She watched the dog frolic around him, rubbing happily against his legs. Things were so simple for animals.

He ruffled the dog’s silky ears, trying at the same time to calm her transports of affection. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you—” he began. The setter flung herself against him, wagging her tail furiously. “Take a damper, Bellona!” He looked at Maud, between laughter and vexation. “Why don't we keep walking? Something’s bound to come along to distract her.”