Death of a Dowager (11 page)

Chapter 20

The Marchioness was holding forth. It was not a conversation, because a conversation requires give-and-take. This was a soliloquy, and the Marchioness was center stage, commandeering the visit. In short order, she nattered on about problems with the Irish, the deplorable conduct of Queen Caroline, and new fashions from Paris, “Women there are wetting their muslins and letting them dry on their bodies.
Très
revealing!” She paused to catch her breath.

“Ah, the refreshments have come! Thank you, Lillian.” Lady Grainger smiled as a bovine-faced maid set down a silver tea service and the accoutrements for our enjoyment. On the maid’s heels came the butler Stanton carrying a three-tiered serving plate piled high with scones and crumpets. Lady Grainger had been juggling Mags but finally gave in and put the excitable dog on the floor. The pup ran from chair to chair, waving his tail merrily. Mags sniffed at the pastries with hope-filled eyes, but Stanton gave the pup a warning look that withered the dog’s bright interest.

“What a wonderful evening we had at the opera last night. Signora Corri-Paltoni did a splendid job, don’t you think?” said Lady Grainger.

“His Majesty enjoyed
Tancredi
immensely, especially since it was written by his good friend Rossini,” said the Marchioness as she heaped several spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. “Musical ability is the hallmark of a cultured individual, is it not? The King himself plays cello admirably. All of my children took instruction in voice and piano.”

“Speaking of children,” said Lady Grainger as she poured a cup for her sister-in-law, “Mrs. Brayton was just telling us her good news as you joined us, Lady Conyngham. Please, Lucy, do repeat it for the Marchioness. I am so pleased for you!”

Lucy again explained about the letter she had received from Evans’s nanny. She ended by saying, “The boy is due to arrive any day now.”

“My dear, dear girl. I know how much Olivia thinks of you, and I know that your own mother has long since passed, so I must speak to you from my mother’s heart.” The Dowager Lady Ingram set down her cup and tilted her head while considering Lucy carefully. “And I tell you in all honesty that I would rather die in this chair than have one of my daughters saddled with an illegitimate child by her husband!”

A long silence followed. The Dowager’s framing had been so clever that no one could accuse her of cruelty. But the result was as she had intended. Lucy’s mouth quivered and her eyes blinked rapidly.

“Actually,” I said, because I could not let this go unanswered, “I respectfully disagree with you, Lady Ingram, in the strongest terms possible. To my way of thinking, there is no such thing as an illegitimate child. A liaison might be unrecognized by the church and the state, but the child of such a relationship is not responsible for the method of his arrival. Every child is a blessing from God. How could any of God’s gifts be illegitimate? We are all precious in his sight.”

“Well said!” Lady Conyngham nodded at me, her effervescent response changing the mood entirely. “Exactly right, Mrs. Rochester. I agree with you wholeheartedly, and I, for one, am excited to meet this young fellow. I know the King will be, too. He has a special fondness for children. In fact, we have had many conversations about how to involve them in his coronation ceremony. We are thinking they might scatter rose petals along the carpet before the King processes.”

I sighed with relief as the subject changed to discussion of the upcoming coronation details. The Ingrams perked up considerably at this topic.

“Of course, His Majesty has requested that I help him make a list of those who will be invited,” said the Marchioness. “Actually, there are many lists. One is for those to be honored by the King for their service. Another for those who will be participants in the ceremony. Yet another for those invited to view the ceremony at Westminster Abbey. And of course, we also create a list of those who would be invited to the fete afterward.”

“I am sure there is no difficulty in finding room on your list for beautiful young ladies from well-bred families. Families with a history of service to our Crown,” said Lady Ingram coyly. “Such as our own.”

“Alas! It is my sad duty to cull names from the list. I think it so important that the King be surrounded by youth, since they represent the future of the realm.” A sly smile played on Lady Conyngham’s lips. I remembered what Lucy had said about Blanche Ingram’s spinsterhood lasting far too long. The game that she and her mother had played was about to catch up with them. And Lady Conyngham had handily reminded them of that, although she’d done it so deftly that I couldn’t help but marvel.

Blanche’s face turned first dark red and then white as chalk.

Her mother responded with a grimace. If she had expected reassurance from the Marchioness, she’d been sorely disappointed. Instead, the Marchioness had reminded the Dowager that her daughter was eight and twenty, well past the age when most girls marry.

The knowledge must have hurt. As we watched, Lady Ingram shifted her weight in her chair restlessly, wincing as she did.

“Mama? Is your neuralgia bothering you?” Blanche asked.

“I shall fetch the rose hips.” Mary spoke for the first time in our long visit. “The ones that Mr. Lerner left for you.”

My ears perked up at the sound of the familiar name. Although on reflection, it wasn’t surprising, at all. Mr. Lerner had come highly recommended by our own Mr. Carter, who also served the Ingrams at their Yorkshire estate, so it stood to reason that he might also have recommended the man to care for the Ingrams while they were here in town.

“Go on, Mary. Why didn’t you remember them sooner? I am sure that more than an hour has gone by—you know how often I should have them!” Lady Ingram waved her younger daughter away with a flicking motion of her hand, as if batting away an annoying insect.

Mary bolted from her seat and ran out of the drawing room as an uncomfortable silence followed.

“Lucy, pour another cup of tea for me, please?” asked Lady Grainger. “Ladies, please help yourselves to the pastries. Cook is an excellent baker.”

When Lucy lifted the pot to pour, Blanche snatched her cup away. “Thank you, but I’ve had enough tea. I much prefer coffee. All the best people are buying theirs from Fortnum and Mason. In fact, I recently purchased a bag with hazelnut flavoring. Marchioness Conyngham, would you like some?”

Although the effort was not subtle, it did the trick. The Marchioness considered the offer and then said, “Thank you, but I prefer tea.”

“Oh, you’ll at least want to catch the scent of it!” Blanche hopped up, disappeared, and came back directly, carrying a small tray. On it she had placed a bright blue tin and an unusual sort of glass vessel.

“Where is your sister?” said Lady Ingram to her older daughter.

“She had her head stuck in a cupboard, still searching for those rose hips. I can’t imagine how she could have misplaced them. No matter, Mother, I’ll serve you coffee instead. I’m sure it will help.”

Blanche lifted the lid of the tin and a robust fragrance wafted our way. “Ah! The fragrance is so rich!”

She passed the open tin to Lady Grainger, who handed it quickly to me. Even though I had not been invited to do so, I smelled the contents and found them enjoyable. I passed it on to Lucy. My friend breathed deeply over the tin and then handed it to the Marchioness Conyngham.

“His Majesty and I adore Fortnum’s,” said the Marchioness, smiling with approval as she handed the tin back to Blanche. “Their picnic baskets are divine!”

Blanche used a teaspoon to scrape along the bottom of the tin. She managed a few spoonfuls of a finely ground meal. These helpings were carefully poured into a cloth bag and placed into the glass vessel, which I could now see was actually two glass globes set on top of each other. Last of all, she added hot water onto the grounds and clapped the lid down securely.

Lady Ingram rustled about in her chair, moving this way and that, wincing as she did. “That girl. Why is Mary taking so long? Oh, my legs. The pain is nearly intolerable.”

“Mama, I wager this coffee will do you more good than those silly rose hips. Come, let us share this pot. Mrs. Brayton, please hand this to my mother.”

“My flower, my loving Blanche,” said the Dowager Lady, beaming at her child. “I have been blessed with a wonderful daughter, a paragon of young womanhood. Of course, my family line can be traced back a hundred years, and good breeding always shows, doesn’t it? One can tell.”

Lucy and I exchanged quick glances under our lashes. A smile played on her lips, but I didn’t dare stare at my friend for long lest we both display our amusement. If the events of the night before were an example of “good breeding,” then their stock needed an infusion of genteel blood. But to quell my desire to laugh at her ironic assertion, I added sugar to my tea, as did the Marchioness while Lady Grainger took hers plain with cream.

For a few minutes, we were each content to enjoy our hot beverages.

“Ah, this is delicious. So invigorating,” said Lady Ingram, first sipping and then resting the cup on the arm of her chair. “Blanche, you always take such good care of me . . . Oh!”

Lady Ingram released her hold on the handle of her coffee. The cup dropped to the carpet and bounced twice before rolling under her chair. And then before our astonished eyes, the Dowager Baroness Ingram fell face-first onto the floor.

Chapter 21

Blanche screamed but stayed glued to her seat, while Lucy went immediately to the fallen woman’s aid. I joined her on the carpet. Together we rolled the Dowager onto her side. Lucy patted the woman’s face to rouse her. “Lady Ingram? Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

Lady Grainger yanked hard on the bellpull. “Stanton?” she yelled. “Stanton! Come quickly!”

Blanche cried out, “Mama? Mama!”

“Come on,” said Lucy as she slapped the woman a little harder. In the melee, Mags darted out from under Lady Grainger’s chair and lapped up the spilled coffee.

“No, no!” said our hostess, grabbing at her dog’s collar. She dragged the pup back to its spot under her chair, and tossed her napkin over the spot.

“Olivia, do you have smelling salts?” Lucy asked.

But Lady Grainger was distracted by Stanton’s appearance at the door. “Get a doctor! Hurry!”

The Marchioness dug around in her reticule and retrieved a small frosted bottle with gold trim. “Here,” she said as she handed it to Lucy. Once uncapped, the noxious fumes caused all of us to gag. All of us save Lady Ingram. Through watering eyes I watched as Lucy waved the bottle under the woman’s nose.

The Dowager did not respond. Not even to blink or sputter.

“There’s nothing we can do,” whispered Lucy in my ear, all the while waving the smelling salts under the woman’s nose. “She’s too far gone. Totally unresponsive. I’m simply stalling for time until the doctor arrives. Grab a napkin and fan her to keep everyone distracted.”

I nodded and did as I was told but I couldn’t help noticing that Lady Ingram’s eyes were flat as shale tiles. The electricity that surrounds living creatures had quickly departed. Her mouth hung open and her eyes stared fixedly.

“Dear, dear,” muttered Lady Conyngham, fanning herself furiously.

Meanwhile, Blanche seemed to have realized this was more than a swoon. She got on her knees, pushing Lucy and me to one side. “Mama? Speak to me! Is it your heart? Come on!” When that garnered no response, she turned and shoved me hard. “Go away. Don’t touch her.”

I did as she asked.

“Mary?” Blanche shouted. “Where is my sister? Mary!”

Miss Mary Ingram entered, carrying a small muslin bag. Her steps were quick but tremulous, as if she were walking on ice, and her face was white as an Easter lily. She peered around me, glancing down at the floor.

“Mama! Mama?” Mary lost her grip on the bag, sending orange and yellow rose hips bouncing along the carpet. Ignoring them, Mary ran to her mother’s side and grabbed at her mother’s hand. “Why, she’s cold. How can this be? I only went to get the rose hips!”

“Yes, and you took your sweet time. She was in pain! Now see what you’ve done? Her heart couldn’t take it!” Blanche said cruelly.

Mary moaned. In an instant, she started peppering her mother’s face with kisses. “No, Mama! Don’t leave me! No! Please, no!” she cried.

Blanche sank back on her heels, covering her face and sobbing into her hands. Her sister collapsed in a heap next to their mother.

The Marchioness sighed and shook her head.

“What’s going on here? I heard shrieking.” Mr. Waverly came to the door of the drawing room. One look told him all he needed to know. He squatted and pressed the fingers of one hand to the Dowager’s neck, never relinquishing his grip on his baton. Then he leaned his ear to her mouth and listened. Finally, he glanced up at me and I knew what he was thinking.

“It’s no use. She’s dead.”

Chapter 22

“She is in God’s hands. My condolences,” Waverly said, as his fingertips closed the Dowager Lady Ingram’s blank eyes. We all stared at the prostrate form on the floor. Whatever her faults, Lady Silvana Ingram had doted on her children—well, on her daughter Blanche and her son, Lord Ingram, at least. Poor Mary was rather an afterthought, but even so, I remember the Lady’s pride three years ago when they appeared at Thornfield Hall for a weekend party. No mother could have thought more of her children than she had.

And now she was dead. How curious it seemed that a woman so lively and opinionated could be rendered so still and silent so quickly. Death had crept among us like a thief and had stolen her spark of life.

My own mother died when I was so young, I scarcely remembered her. She was more of an impression than a person. However, as a mother myself now, I could feel the wrench of pain caused when I contemplated leaving Ned. My heart crowded my throat, and I pinched the spot between my eyes to hold back the tears.

In her last breath, did Lady Ingram realize she’d been denied the chance to say good-bye?

I shook my head to clear it. This was not the time or the place to give in to grief. There was too much to be done. The practicalities of death would keep us all busy, moving forward, until the reality of the loss could be admitted.

“I have sent a footman for Mr. Lerner,” Stanton said, as he appeared in the doorway. The butler ran a shaking hand across his jacket. Habit, really, because his jacket rested perfectly on his broad shoulders. He stared at the woman on the floor but reserved his real attention for his mistress.

“On behalf of the staff, I share my deepest sympathies with you, Lady Grainger, and of course, the young ladies. I shall prepare the house for mourning.”

“Thank you, Stanton.” Lady Grainger’s voice was raspy with emotion. She touched her handkerchief to her eyes. “But for right now, please wait here. We might need you.”

“As you wish, ma’am.” He lingered by the door, standing at attention, his eyes trained on the hallway to give us privacy.

“Could you bring us a sheet?” asked Waverly.

Stanton seemed startled. Obviously, he had not thought of that, and I could tell by the red spreading across his face that he was chagrined by his oversight. “Certainly. Immediately, sir.”

The Ingram girls were crying softly now. Each had sunk deeply into a chair, turning away from each other. Lady Grainger glanced at Waverly, then at Stanton as he left, and looked puzzled, as if asking herself,
How could this have happened
?

“Waverly? I want to go home,” said the Marchioness suddenly. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “I offer all of you my condolences. I shall leave now.”

Waverly bowed deeply and his finger traced the tip of his black baton where the crest of the sovereign was embossed in gold. “Would that I could escort you, ma’am, but I can’t. My duty is to the Crown. I cannot go until . . . until certain things are seen to. There will have to be a report filed and submitted to the magistrate. Since I’m here, it might be easier . . .” He glanced at the sobbing Ingrams “. . . if I get this done myself. A courtesy to the family.”

The Marchioness sent him a sour look. “If you must. Are you sure? Well, then, carry on. At least until someone else can take over for you.”

“As usual, ma’am, you have the King’s best interests at heart,” said Waverly without the slightest trace of irony. Pulling a crumpled notebook from a back pocket, he continued, “Can we start with the lady’s full name?”

“Lady Silvana Ingram, wife of the late Baron Ingram of Ingram Park,” said Lady Grainger. The words were written on a sigh.

Suddenly I felt very, very sorry for Lucy’s friend. Here she’d arranged this visit as a courtesy to Lucy, an attempt to make peace, and look what had happened! The unexpected visit from Lady Conyngham should have been a triumph for her as well—certainly Lady Grainger had no reason to suspect the Marchioness’s more sinister motives.

But now, this lovely place, this welcoming room, would forever bear the imprint of this tragic event.

In fits and starts, Lady Grainger answered Waverly’s questions. She explained to the Bow Street Runner that her sister-in-law had long suffered from a bad heart. “Mr. Carter and then Mr. Lerner both treated her at home, back in Ingram Park. Of late, however, it was her neuralgia that had been bothering her. For that Mr. Lerner had prescribed rose hips and left a bag of them for her use. Mary had been dispatched to bring them back so that Silvana could steep them in with her tea.”

“I did my best!” Mary said. “I tried to find them! But they had been moved!”

“Your staff,” said Blanche in a petulant tone. “Incompetent. Every one of them.”

“Blanche, please, not now.” Lady Grainger sounded bone weary. “Girls, I share your sorrow. I, too, am heartbroken! But trying times expose one’s character. So we must carry on, as your mother would have wanted, and be kind to one another.”

Blanche pulled back slightly, as if she’d been slapped, but a sullen look came over her face.

“Mary, everyone knows you did your best. It’s not your fault that your mother’s heart was weak. She looked perfectly fine, except for the pain of course, before . . .” Lady Grainger stopped.

“A hackney has just arrived. I believe Mr. Lerner is here.” Stanton held a white bundle. Together he and Mr. Waverly solemnly opened the sheet, unfurled it, and gently settled it over the remains of Lady Ingram.

Mary and Blanche began to sob even more loudly. Lady Grainger touched her eyes repeatedly with her linen handkerchief, but she missed a few tears, and they streamed down her face, dripping off her chin.

“What has happened? Who is hurt?” A young man carrying a tattered and overflowing satchel appeared in the doorway. He was stopped in his progress because Stanton and Mr. Waverly had retreated to the threshold, and they blocked his way. Once I had a good look at the newcomer, my hand flew to my mouth in surprise.

Mr. Lerner, the young doctor recommended to Edward by Mr. Carter, was the same man whom I’d witnessed arguing with Mary Ingram in Hyde Park just this morning.

I could also tell by his change of expression that he recognized me, although the confusion that came next suggested that he could not recall exactly why I looked familiar.

Despite the slap she’d dealt him earlier, Mary’s eyes couldn’t hide her adoration for the doctor. Now I put together how it happened. Mr. Lerner had called on Lady Ingram, leaving the rose hips for her pain, and Mary had followed him into Hyde Park. He must’ve been on his way to Boodle’s to meet with Edward and Mr. Douglas when Miss Mary had waylaid him.

“Mr. Lerner, I take it? I’m Phineas Waverly from Bow Street.” The constable offered his hand for a shake. “I happened to be here in my capacity as escort for the Marchioness Conyng-ham, a dear friend of His Royal Highness. I’m afraid it’s one of your patients, Lady Ingram. I believe this woman’s weak heart got the best of her.” And with that Mr. Waverly led the young man over to the body but continued with, “You know, of course, Lady Grainger? And the Ingram daughters? As I understand you have been here before?”

Mr. Lerner gave a brief nod.

I averted my eyes as Mr. Lerner knelt beside the still form on the carpet, but I still heard the sheet rustle as he folded it back. Out of the edge of my vision, I noticed that he moved swiftly, pressing his fingertips here and there. The whole procedure lent the Dowager a vulnerability she had not owned in life. Death robs us of our individuality. No modesty is accorded the spent carcass that was once a vibrant member of the human populace. With impersonal haste, the doctor checked for her heartbeat at her neck, held a mirror under her nose, and listened at her chest. Sinking back on his heels, he admitted defeat. “My deepest condolences,” the doctor said to everyone and no one in particular. “Her heart was always irregular. I fear it finally beat its last.”

Blanche continued her soft sobbing, but Mary wailed loudly. Mr. Lerner cast a glance at the younger sister but carefully kept his distance.

“I’ll stay here until the undertaker arrives, but I suggest that all of you adjourn to another room.” His manner was matter-of-fact but firm.

“Lady Grainger, would you kindly lead the way?” asked Mr. Waverly.

“Yes, yes, of course.” After mopping her face, she slowly stood up, gripping her chair for balance. The recent events had robbed her of her color, and she seemed a bit lost, as though she’d suddenly awakened in someone else’s house. It took her a minute to gather her wits. Lucy and I rose to our feet. Lady Conyngham planted her cane and hoisted herself up. The Ingram girls uncurled from their spots and stood wearily but kept crying. We were all ready to leave when Lady Grainger looked around her feet. “The dog. My dog. Where is Mags?”

“She must be hiding under your chair. Probably frightened, poor dear,” said Lucy. “Too much commotion.”

“I’ll fetch him, Lady Grainger.” Stanton crossed the floor and knelt under Lady Grainger’s chair. “Come on. Here, Mags.” When she did not answer, he rummaged in his pocket for a treat. “Biscuit?”

But the dog did not obey.

“I can see her, but she’s being stubborn. Ignoring me.” Stanton reached under the chair skirt. He tugged at the dog and then stopped abruptly. “Oh my.”

“What is it?” Lady Grainger gripped the chair arm and leaned over to watch the procedure. “Oh, Stanton, just grab her.”

He sat back and shook his head. “Lady, I . . .” Very slowly the butler thrust both arms under Lady Grainger’s chair. As he crawled backward, a mass of silky white fur followed in the same direction. But something was amiss. Something was not right.

The dog did not move.