Joan Smith (23 page)

As sleep was out of the question, I lay there wondering who had been at the cubbyhole door. Hill had prescribed laudanum for her, which was suspicious, but then he often did that. Welland knew the passage opened here, possibly Pierre knew it as well, though I had not told him so.

Was it Pierre I had seen darting across the lawn to the gatehouse? The form had not moved with his customary sloth, was not low set like a badger. The shadow had moved with more speed and agility, more like Welland Sinclair is what I mean. The two of them? They had been together, and Pierre was not in his room. Before many more minutes I heard a creaking along the hall—Pierre going to his room. I thought he had been with Welland in the passage, gone downstairs with him, then waited till silence reigned above, before he came up, while Welland ran home.

What could they have been doing? Was it possible Alice had been not a nightmare, but a calico sheet danced across the room? I would investigate the passage in the morning for any signs they may have left behind in their haste.

Despite my poor night’s sleep, I was awake early in the morning. I have an internal bell in my head that awakens me whenever I wish. I set it for seven-thirty that I might get into the secret passageway before Pierre or Welland went to check for any telltale clues left behind. Pinny was completely mystified by my absence from my own bed. She stood in the room staring at an empty bed when I entered. I told her I had slept with my aunt, since she was having bad dreams.

“I thought I heard something in the night myself, miss, and was afraid her ladyship had got the doctor to give her another black drop. She howled like a banshee for two days straight when she took that, with Dr. Hill sitting by her side the whole time, feeling guilty he’d let her talk him into it. He wouldn’t want another scandal on his hands.”

“Another
scandal?” I asked, coming to sharp attention. “What are you talking about, Pinny? What scandal?”

“Why, miss, it’s no secret he had to give up his London practice for nearly killing some lady he was giving dope to. His business fell clean off, and when he came back here, the local folks were all afraid to go near him too. It was only his wife’s dowry was all kept him going. She had some money, and when she died, she left it to him.”

“How did she die?” I asked, fearing another dose of bad medicine, either accidental or intentional.

“She was dancing a jig at the assembly when she fell down dead on the floor. The heart it was, miss. I had the story from my ma, who knew all about it from Lady Sinclair, the other Lady Sinclair I mean. She was her woman from away back, came with her from Suffolk when she got married to Sir Edward.”

I looked at her with a totally new interest. “Your mother worked for the first Lady Sinclair?”

“Yes, miss. She came here with her ladyship when she got married, and then she married Sir Edward’s head footman herself. I’ve been here from day one, born and bred here. My folks are dead now, but I have a good home.”

“Now isn’t that interesting!”

“I don’t know, miss. Napier says my life has been as dull as dishwater, but I don’t see that his own has been much more interesting, working for St. Regis and Mr. Sinclair all these years.”

“Do you remember anything about your mother’s mistress, anything at all?”

“I only remember them talking about her. I was born after she died, so I have no memory of it. She was pretty, they say, but not near so nice as your aunt. The servants all liked your aunt better till
...
till lately.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the wages, miss. She keeps putting them off. She’s paid a little something on account, but there’s a full quarter still owing. Folks need their money,” she said simply.

I continued quizzing her while I dressed, but Pinny was too young to know anything of interest about Alice Sedgely. Still it was odd, her being in the house all the time, and my never realizing we had a representative from Suffolk. Upon further questioning, I learned the seamstress in the village, Miss Brendan, had done considerable work for the first Lady Sinclair. I decided it was time I had a new gown, and would have Miss Brendan make it up for me. If there was any local scandal, a modiste was as apt as anyone to know about it.

But first I would investigate the secret passage. Occasionally the gods smile on us. More usually they laugh in our faces, but on this occasion they were benevolent. They led me to Welland’s green glasses, fallen from his pocket in his mad dash through the passageway, for he would not have been wearing them in the dark passage. He would want all the light his unshuttered eyes could give. They had fallen just at the foot of the stairs. I nearly stepped on them, for they had fallen half under the bottom step. My candle flame picked up the twinkle of the metal frames. I went on up to the top of the passage, very carefully, so as not to awaken my aunt. If they had been pulling a sheet before her eyes, they left no trace of it, but I remembered very well seeing Uncle Edward in Welland’s closet. He knew how it was done, and if he had not been instrumental in the Franconis initial apparition, I would be much surprised.

His whole behavior was taking on a menacing flavor, in light of last night’s prank. ! had been too easily hoodwinked by his facile explanations. As I tallied up the evidence, I realized that it was he, and no one else, who stood out as being guilty.
He
was the one who championed the Franconis,
he
had the sheet with Edward’s picture on it,
he
had that stack of money and jewels, and a glib story to account for them. He
said
he was working for St. Regis, but no one had checked his story. He might have brought the letter of character with him, written by his own hand, for all I knew.

And even if he was St. Regis’s secretary, who was more likely to know the family’s background, to be aware of family secrets that laid the members open to blackmail? St. Regis took a keen interest in the family; a careless word to an unscrupulous and impoverished cousin who was as sly as a fox and as poor as a churchmouse might put ideas in the fellow’s head. He might even have suggested his coming here to St. Regis to discover what was amiss, but in reality have a different intention at the back of his head. Who was he anyway? “Cousin” was a blanket term that covered everything from actual blood cousins to tenuous connections; even illegitimate kin were sometimes honored with the term.

His actual living
with
St. Regis indicated he did not have a parental roof over his head. Outside of his made-up story about his mother’s locket, he had been marvelously mute on the subject of his parentage, as I considered it. Did he have any brothers or sisters? How often I had mentioned Elleri and Marie—all of my family—to him, with never a single word of any kin but St. Regis from him. It seemed as if he had dropped full-grown into Tanglewood, with no family strings but his patron.

I was a ninnyhammer. Like any foolish, gullible, half-in-love girl, I had swallowed his stories holus-bolus, because I was a little infatuated with him. He had been at pains to see I should be too.

It was suddenly crystal clear to me that his green glasses were worn to hide his real appearance. What other possible reason could there be? His eyes were healthy, untinged with red or weariness. A criminal, of course, would have some interest in hiding his phiz. Too clear a description of him after he had done his dirty work and left the neighborhood would make his capture easier. And if there was one thing on that man’s face more noticeable than any other, it was his damned melting chocolate eyes.

I hastened straight to my desk and wrote a lengthy letter to St. Regis. It was full of questions. Did Welland Sinclair wear green glasses? Had St. Regis sent him to Troy Fenners to investigate the matter of Aunt Loo’s
fortune, and to buy back the family heirlooms? Was there any reason at all to suspect the man’s character? All these and a good many queries were scribbled down. At the end, I suggested rather urgently that St. Regis himself come
at once
to see what he could to straighten out the imbroglio here. This done, I sealed it up for posting in the village.

But before I set one toe out of that house, I convinced my aunt to have a servant hammer her cubbyhole door closed on the inside of her room, so that no one could enter it via the secret passageway. It took a little convincing, but I said I had seen a very dangerous-looking man sneaking off through the park the night before after she had been disturbed.

“Why did you not tell me at the time?” she asked.

“I was afraid you would not get any sleep. That is really why I slept with you.”

“How sweet of you, my dear. That was very courageous, but are you sure it was a
man?”

“It was certainly not a woman, but whether one would care to dignify such a low person with the title of man is a moot point.”

“I wonder who it could have been.”

“He was headed toward the gatehouse.”

“You don’t think it was Welland?” she asked, frowning.

“It rather looked like him. Who is he? Other than being St. Regis’s cousin, I mean. Is he a cousin on the wrong side of the blanket, or how does it come he has no patrimony, no family ever mentioned, outside of St. Regis himself?”

“He is an orphan,” she said, in a commiserating way. “I could not tell you precisely what the connection is. He was just always
there,
you know, accepted as part of St. Regis’s household.”

“Did Edward never mention who he might be?”

“Edward was very fond of him. I remember that. Used to write him little letters when he was at school, and send him a few guineas. Edward knew his mama, I believe. He was used to speak of Lavinia in a fond way. I never met the woman myself. She was dead before I married Edward. Welland’s papa was a cousin to Edward, I know that much at least. They made the grand tour together. I seem to remember they were both in love with Lavinia, but then St. Regis arranged the match with Alice Sedgely for Edward, and so it was the cousin who got to marry Lavinia. I think Welland must get those weak eyes from his mama. The Sinclairs never had any eye trouble.”

“Do you know his father’s name?”

“It was Welland. The son was named after his papa. Old Welland was scholarly too. Not terribly well to grass, of course, but Lavinia had some dowry. I wonder what happened to it? Young Welland hasn’t a sou to his name. He is completely dependent on St. Regis, but of course when he marries Mary, that will be all taken care of.”

I considered this, a theory forming in my mind that was wild, farfetched, and perfectly reasonable for all that. “How many years ago would it have been that Lavinia married her Welland?”

“Oh, mercy me, you are getting into ancient history. What do you care for all that old stuff? Welland is about twenty-eight or nine. It must have been thirty years ago.”

“It was a marriage of convenience, was it?”

“It must have been. The Sinclair marriages usually
are,
and certainly Edward was in love with Lavinia, but whether she returned the attachment I could not really say. Memory is selective. Edward used to
imply
she was, but we mostly remember the good parts of our past, and if some details are unpleasant, we manage to change them a little to make happier daydreaming.”

“I wonder why St. Regis insisted on Edward marrying Alice. Lavinia cannot have been so terribly ineligible, or he would not have allowed Welland to marry her.”

“Alice would not have Welland. She did not
like
Edward, but she positively loathed and despised Welland. St. Regis was determined one of them would have her, for she was very rich, and since she would not even consider Welland, in the end they made her marry my husband.”

“I am a little surprised St. Regis would permit Welland to marry Lavinia. He seems to have had
no
fortune, and Lavinia very little. I wonder why he did not find another heiress for Welland.”

“Yes, that
is
odd, now you mention it. St. Regis not only
accepted
the match, but even
sponsored
it. He must have, for Lavinia lived in the dower house. I often wondered if she was not St. Regis’s lover.”

“And Welland St. Regis’s illegitimate son?” I asked, with a stir of excitement.

“They don’t call it illegitimate when they get someone to marry the girl in time,” she pointed out. “Adulterine, I believe, is the word. I do not think it can be the case, however, for Edward would not have been fond of St. Regis’s son. He would have hated him.”

“But he loved Lavinia.”

“Yes, but he would have hated her having St. Regis’s child, you see. When they married her to Welland, it was only natural they have a child, and Edward did not seem to resent
that
so much.”

“Does the present Welland have any brothers or sisters?”

“No, he was the only child. I think I must return to my scriptorium now, Valerie. I have wasted I don’t know how much time with this business of nailing up the cubbyhole door. Oh, just before you go, my dear, would you mind telling me how the gentlemen kiss nowadays? I am getting to the last chapter. Of course I remember kissing, but styles and customs change, and I don’t want to make it too old-fashioned. They used to ask permission in the old days. I hated it. One seemed so fast to say yes, and so prim and proper to say no. Do they still ask?”

“No, they don’t. What did you used to say, Auntie? Yes, or no?”

“I made it a point never to answer at all, but only to look shocked, and willing,” she answered.

Looking shocked would not have been difficult, with those eyes. She looked perpetually shocked. “I am going into the village to post a letter. Have you any errands for me?”

“No, dear,” she said, already preoccupied with the trials of Gloria. She had her “story” look on her face.

I went over our conversation as I jogged into the village in the whisky. I expect you have some inkling what was in my head. I was wondering, not whether Welland was St. Regis’s adulterine son, but whether he was not Edward’s. Edward had loved Lavinia; he was a bit of a philanderer; she was hastily married off to a poor cousin and supported by St. Regis himself. St. Regis had arranged it to cover up the disgrace, and to settle a proper match for Sir Edward, who was too high in prestige to marry a nobody. Naturally Edward would take an interest in his own son, would send him money, be fond of him. Equally naturally, the son would feel mightily gypped if he learned, at some latish date in his life, that while he was a pensioner, his own papa had left a good estate.