Evelyn Richardson (20 page)

“Very good, Madam. I shall ask Cook to prepare a hamper for the journey and I shall see to it that your clothes are packed. Will we be staying long?”

“Not if I can help it, Lucy. It is less than a day’s journey, and once there, I expect to spend no more than a night, two at the very most.”

Hoping to save herself time in her investigation, Catherine returned to the library to reread all the letters in the bundle she had labeled “Great-aunt Belinda.” Sifting through them carefully, she searched for the names of anyone, a vicar, a local merchant, an acquaintance of any sort, who might be able to tell her more about Great-aunt Belinda’s last day, but there was no one. Even the solicitor who had informed Catherine of the contents of her great-aunt’s will appeared to have been in Oxford on business at the time of his client’s death.

Worn out by anxiety, her eyes tired from reading and rereading the letters, Catherine went to bed that night exhausted and discouraged. The next day, however, as the carriage rolled down the drive, her spirits lifted somewhat. At last she was doing something to foil ‘Ugolino’ and his nefarious plots. Even if she was ultimately unsuccessful, at least she was actively resisting him, and it felt good to do so. Surely now that she was putting her own mind and energy to work against him she would win in the end. After all, ‘Ugolino’ was only as good as the people he employed, and none of them, not even he, was as good as Catherine was when she put her mind to a thing.

Catherine would have felt a good deal less optimistic if she had seen the face at the dower house kitchen window watching closely as the carriage rolled down the drive and turned left onto the Bath road. As the carriage drove out of sight, the face disappeared from the window and Sukey raced to the stables, a piece of plum tart carefully concealed under her apron.

To most people, a piece of plum tart, no matter how large, did not constitute a large enough bribe to risk losing employment, but to the scrawny lad who had been cleaning out the stables at the dower house for less than a week, plum tart was a generous reward indeed for a two mile dash to Granville Park and back just to pass along the simple message “The mistress has gone to Oxfordshire.”

Chapter Twenty-two

The journey to Oxfordshire passed without incident, and once she had resigned herself to the fact that there was nothing she could do until they reached Bampton, Catherine actually began to enjoy watching the passing scenery.

It had been more than two years since she had done anything more out of the ordinary than trace the road between Bath and the dower house back and forth and back and forth until she knew every tree, every fence, and every cottage in every season and in all kinds of weather. Now it was a delight to feast her eyes on different church spires, unfamiliar village greens, and houses she had never laid eyes upon. For a time she was able to forget altogether the very reason for her journey until, as the western sky was beginning to change from blue to pink, they drew up in front of the George and Dragon.

The George and Dragon was a respectable enough looking inn, clean but modest, and the landlord welcomed them with the unfeigned interest of someone unaccustomed to travelers who stayed longer than the time required for a change of horses or a quick meal.

His wife showed Lucy and Catherine to two large comfortable rooms at the front of the house, chatting with all the pleasure of a sociable woman constrained by the limited custom of an inn in a small rural village located some distance from the major thoroughfares to London, Oxford, Bath, or Gloucester.

“Of course I knew of Lady Belinda Montague, a fine enough looking woman in her day, but headstrong, very headstrong.” The landlady pulled back the curtains and flung open the windows to let in the fresh air. “With her looks and her fortune, she could have had her pick of any number of eligible gentlemen in the area, but none of them ever did appear to ‘come up to scratch,’ as they say. It was the general opinion in these parts that she was too clever for most of them, but it is my way of thinking that she preferred to conduct her own life just as she wished without the possibility of interference from any man. A husband would have been an awkward interruption to her way of life. She was forever studying, she and that companion of hers.”

“A Miss Smith, I believe.” Seeing her chance, Catherine stepped in to direct the tide of reminiscence into more useful channels.

“Yes, Smith. Miss Harriet Smith, that was it,” the landlady agreed.

“Do you know what became of her?”

“No. She left not long after Lady Belinda died. I do not know where she went, not to family, for she had none. I believe she took another position, up north somewhere.”

“Then she must have realized that Lady Belinda’s illness was a grave one if she left for another position so soon after.”

“Well, Lady Belinda was rather frail for some time so I suppose it is possible that Miss Smith was looking for a position, but Mr. Jenkins, the apothecary, said that it is often so with strong-willed people; they linger on through an illness that would have killed less determined people.

“Then her death came as no surprise to anyone?”

“Dear me, no. In fact, I cannot say exactly when it happened for sure. She was so rarely seen in the village, keeping to herself as she did. Even the burial was the quietest of affairs. She and the vicar were not on the best of terms, you see. In addition to being exceedingly strong-minded, she was something of a freethinker as well, I believe. Dr. Stevenson did not approve. Being rather high church and all, he would have found opinions like hers rather difficult to take even in a gentleman, but in a woman—well, you can imagine. But he did his Christian duty.”

“Dr. Stevenson,” Catherine remarked thoughtfully. “Perhaps he can tell us more tomorrow.”

“I am sure he would if he could, but the good man was buried himself not two months ago and we have as yet to see his replacement. It is hard, this being such a small parish and all; it would take a most dedicated young man indeed to take it on.”

This was discouraging news, indeed, but Catherine refused to be daunted by it. Surely a vicar who was “rather high church” and conservative enough to disapprove of her great-aunt’s freethinking ways would have been a stickler for detail as far as recording dates and times of death in the parish register.

With this optimistic thought in mind, she consumed the simple but hearty supper of pigeon pie and gooseberry fool the landlady served them and retired early, determined to start her inquiries as early as possible the next morning. If all went well, they could even be on the road before noon and at home in their own beds by the very next evening.

* * * *

The morning dawned most promisingly and after providing the travelers with the simple breakfast they had requested, the landlady sent a lad from the stable off with a note for the sexton, then directed Catherine toward the lane that led to the church.

“It is not far, my lady. You can see the steeple just over there, and it makes a very pleasant walk on such a fine day as this.”

Lucy, who much to her horror had noticed a tear in the lace on her mistress’s nightcap, remained at the inn to repair the damage while Catherine, happy to indulge herself in the fresh air and exercise after a day confined in a carriage, took her time as she strolled along what amounted to little more than a country lane that led to the rose-covered walls of the churchyard and the dark green mass of yews by the lych-gate.

Before entering the gate, she paused to watch a pair of butterflies flitting by and listen to the song of a distant lark, marveling at the simple pleasure to be had from such exquisite but common things. When had she stopped taking pleasure in such simple experiences? And when had she stopped even taking the time to seek them out? When had she become so busy that she no longer appreciated the beauty in the ordinary objects surrounding her, the loveliness of all that nature had to offer?

Was it when Granville had died? No, she had mourned the loss of his friendship and his support, his appreciation for her capabilities, the inspiration of his integrity, but he had never shared her delight in the music of birdsong, the riot of color to be found in a garden, the perfumes of the flowers and the fields. Was it when she had become so involved with running the academy that she had little or no thought to spare for anything else? No, in a way the responsibilities that came with running Lady Catherine Granville’s Select Academy for Genteel Young Ladies had actually invigorated her and given her back some of the energy that seemed to have drained from her after Granville’s death.

When, then, had she lost her exuberance, the sheer joy of existence, of being alive in a world filled with beauty, poetry, and music wherever she looked, whenever she took the time to stop and observe, to savor and appreciate? It was well before Granville’s death—before Granville, even.

It was… Catherine stifled her train of thought as firmly as though she were shutting her own front door behind her when she left for the day. No, she was not going back to that. No matter how much the Countess of Morehampton might speak in his defense, explain his sudden disappearance from Catherine’s life, exclaim over the good he was doing now. No, no matter how responsible or honorable he had become, Lucian Verney was not going to have the power to affect her as strongly as he had before, the power to fill her life with laughter, and excitement, and…

Desperate to wipe such treacherous and unnerving thoughts from her mind, Catherine ran the last few yards to the door of the church where the sexton was waiting for her.

“Mrs. Barnes sent word as you was coming, my lady. I have the register right inside and all, but if you will excuse me I have a grave to be digging out back. Ned Thatcher’s third wife, poor man. Wasn’t married more than a year when off she went in an apoplectic fit. The vicar from over at All Saints agreed to do the service, seeing as the curate’s off at the other parish and we have no one to replace Dr. Stevenson. I will just be out back if you want me.” And pointing to an enormous leather-bound volume lying on the pew closest to the door, he picked up the spade he had left leaning against the doorway and whistling loudly, went back to his work.

Catherine nearly staggered under the weight of the thick brass-cornered volume that must have held the records of all Hampton’s inhabitants since shortly after the Conquest, if the thickness of it was anything to go by. Puffing slightly, and trying not to smear dust on her pelisse, Catherine carried it over to an equally ancient lectern placed conveniently under the light streaming in through high arched windows. Carefully opening it she found the page with the last entries and smoothed it out in front of her.

Bampton was a small village, and though its inhabitants celebrated their normal share of life’s important events—births, marriages, and deaths—they hardly filled one page in a year, so Catherine did not have far to look to find the entries from two years ago.

Finding the page with the year of Great-aunt Belinda’s death clearly marked, she slowly ran her finger down the entries, carefully reading each one so as to be sure to make no mistake. In no time at all she found it, “March 20, Lady Belinda Montague, well advanced in years, and for a considerable time unwell, languished until ten o’clock in the evening.”

‘Ten o’clock in the evening,” Catherine whispered jubilantly. “At least twelve hours after Granville died!” But as she was reveling in the happy thought that the academy was still legally hers, she felt a stunning blow on the back of her head. Her hand slipped from the register, she felt herself falling, and then the whole world went black.

Chapter Twenty-three

Clutching the stout cudgel in his hands, Fogle stared at the inert form crumpled on the floor at his feet. He hoped he hadn’t killed her. She was quite a pretty thing, really, if you liked your women slender and clever-looking. He hadn’t intended to hurt her, but he had had no choice. The master had said to find the page in the register and take it, but she had gotten there before he had, and there was no telling what she would have done with the information once she had found it. He was sure she had found the information she was looking for because he had heard her whispering “At least twelve hours before Granville died” as he had crept silently up on her from the back of the church.

Yes, Lord Granville would be most displeased if Fogle had managed to kill her into the bargain. Not that there was any love lost between the two of them, Lord Granville and the lady, no love lost at all, but a murder in the family was not at all respectable, even if you detested the person, and to Lord Granville, respectability was of ultimate importance. It was to him what religion was to most people.

When the boy from the dower house had come to tell them that the lady had left for Oxfordshire to investigate further into her great-aunt’s death, Lord Granville had ordered Fogle to follow her and find out what she was up to. He had even furnished him with one of the horses from his own stable and Fogle had ridden like the wind. But the horse had cast a shoe at Chippenham and Fogle had been forced to stop and have it attended to. By the time he had reached Bampton, the ladies had retired to the inn and, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention to himself, Fogle had been forced to spend an uncomfortable night under a hayrick.

Lord Granville had been entirely correct in guessing that the lady’s first move would be to consult the parish register. During his interview with Fogle, he had muttered something under his breath about headstrong young women who lacked the proper respect for the heads of their families, refusing to take the word of the man of the family and haring off on their own line of inquiry without consulting their betters. He had therefore instructed Fogle to arrive at the church before the lady and snatch the appropriate page before anyone was the wiser.

“Now, Fogle, I have chosen you for this task because you are a resourceful man and, furthermore, you are a man who can read. This is the name you are looking for.” Lord Granville had thrust a paper under Fogle’s nose with the name “Lady Belinda Montague” clearly written on it. “And this is the year you are looking for. Once you find it, I want you to remove that page and bring it to me, but mind you, do it carefully. I do not want anyone catching sight of you. No one is to know that you have been there at all.”