Leading Lady (24 page)

“Thank you, Rosemary.”

In the privacy of the parlour, Noah picked up the telephone. “Hello?”

He fully expected it would be Olivia, calling to say the fitting was canceled and six o’clock would be fine. But another, vaguely familiar and almost inaudible, voice came through the line.

“Lord Carey?”

“Yes, speaking,” he said, pressing the earpiece closer.

“It’s me . . . Joan. From Doctor Ryce’s?”

“Yes?” Though he strained to hear her, he caught the panic in the voice. His imagination at once conjured up an image of Olivia, ashen-faced and abed with some serious ailment or injury, the family gathered about her too distraught to telephone him. His pulse quickened. “I can barely hear you. What’s wrong, Joan?”

A hesitation, and then in the same low voice, “You’re a very kind man, Lord Carey. Mrs. Bromley says I oughtn’t call, that I’ll get us all sacked. But you ought to know something.”

“Know what? Has something happened to Miss Ryce?”

Another hesitation. “I heard Miss Ryce say you’re coming to town. You should go speak with Roberta Spear at the Saxon Arms. It’s down from the station.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with it.” A two-storey stone hotel with shutters painted a shade of orange that assaulted the eyes. “But why should I speak with Miss—”

“Spear, your Lordship.”

This wasn’t making any sense. But he felt a great tug of relief that this did not involve some injury to Olivia. “What is this about, Joan?”

“I can’t say any more, Lord.”

“Wait. What—”

“I beg you . . . please don’t tell Miss Olivia I called.” Her words were so rushed that he had to strain even harder to hear them. “I’ll be sacked.”

“I still don’t under—”

But the connection broke abruptly.

“Strange,” Noah muttered, leaving the parlour.

His mother was in the morning room, arranging marigolds in a vase. “What did you say, dear?”

He opened his mouth and hesitated. No sense in troubling her over a situation he didn’t yet understand himself. “I’m taking Olivia to dinner, Mother. May I bring you anything from town?”

“No, thank you.” She smiled. “I’ll send word out to Vernon. And I’ll wrap some of these in paper for Olivia.”

“She’d like that.”

****

The doorman at the Saxon Arms motioned Noah to an armchair in the lobby. Presently the hotel manager came out from the dining room. He was about forty, with deep lines curving out like parentheses on the sides of his mouth.

“Good evening, I’m Mr. Pickering. How may I be of service, Lord . . . Carey?”

“Carey it is,” Noah said, rising. “Did I interrupt your supper?”

“Not at all,” the manager said as they shook hands. “I was just making sure preparations were in order.”

His brows rose questioningly. Noah decided it was time to sink or swim.

“Have you a guest by the name of Miss Spear?” he asked. “I don’t recall her given name.”

“No, I’m quite sure we haven’t.”

“Would you mind checking your register?”

The man smiled. “We’re a small establishment, Lord Carey. I know the names of our guests.”

Serves you right!
Noah chided himself. Setting out like some Sherlock Holmes because of a vague telephone call. “Well, thank you for—”

“But we’ve a chambermaid by the name of Roberta Spear,” Mr. Pickering said tactfully, as if fearful of giving the impression that someone with Noah’s stature would be calling on a member of the cleaning staff.

The name clicked a light on in Noah’s mind. “Is she here? May I see her?”

Mr. Pickering sent a glance toward the doorman, who was hovering just inside pretending not to listen, then cleared his throat. “I’m afraid our staff aren’t allowed gentleman callers, Lord Carey.”

Heat rose to Noah’s cheeks. “It’s not that sort of call, Mr. Pickering. I would just like to speak with her. Five minutes.”

“But of course,” the manager said at once. “You’ll please forgive me . . . times being what they are. Would you care to wait in my office while I send for her?”

Mr. Pickering escorted him to a sofa and left, apologizing for the ledgers and stacks of papers upon his desk. “I like to get a head start on end-of-the-month receipts.”

When the office door opened again, Noah rose as a woman about his own age entered. She wore the ubiquitous black gown with white apron and a lace cap atop her brown hair. Her complexion was marred by several smallpox scars.

“Miss Spear?” Noah said.

“Yes, Lord Carey?”

Odd that she knew his name. But then, of course, Mr. Pickering would have informed her who was waiting. Motioning to the far end of the sofa, he said, “Will you please have a seat.”

She did so after a slight hesitation, folded work-reddened
hands in her lap and waited, her hazel eyes timidly not quite meeting his.

“I received a puzzling call today from Joan at Doctor Ryce’s house,” he explained.

At mention of Doctor Ryce, a corner of her mouth tugged downward. “Joan?”

“She’s the parlourmaid there. I’m sorry, I don’t know her surname.”

Miss Spear shook her head. “There weren’t any Joan when I worked there.”

“Were you the parlourmaid?”

“Up until August past. But I helped Mrs. Ryce and the daughters dress too, as they didn’t have a lady’s maid.”

“Then Joan must have replaced you.”

“Hmm,” she said politely, as if she felt he was expecting an acknowledgment of some sort.

It was as if Noah were in a dream, where conversations made no sense. He still had no clue why he was here. What was he supposed to ask next?

A question popped into his mind. “Why do you suppose Joan would have asked me to speak with you?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Well, this is a monumental waste of time.
He didn’t intend to get Joan in trouble, but he would certainly convey to her he did not appreciate her making mischief.

Yet, she had seemed truly fearful of losing her position. Why would she risk that over a prank?

If he asked enough questions, surely one would make the connection that was supposed to be made. “May I ask why you’re no longer employed at the Ryces’?” he asked, gently, not wishing to embarrass her if she had been sacked for some incompetence.

A corner of her mouth flinched just a bit. “I found this job, sir.”

He had touched a nerve, he realized. “Why did you leave there, Miss Spear?”

“I found this job,” she repeated.

“But what prompted you to look?”

Caution mingled with fear in her expression. “I wanted to work in a hotel.”

Noah hooked one knee over the other, trying to keep his voice from revealing his growing frustration. “Yes, but why did you wish to leave the Ryces’ employment?”

It was as if a curtain had dropped between them. She sent a longing look toward the door. “I have to go back to work now.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“It weren’t nothing,” she replied, rising. “The Ryces were very good to me. But I wanted to work here.”

Noah got to his feet as well and watched her walk across the small room. At the door she turned just enough to send him an apologetic look. “Good evenin’, Lord Carey.”

“Wait, please.”

Not removing her hand from the knob, she looked at him again.

“I’m to marry Olivia Ryce in less than three months,” he said. “If there’s something I should know . . .”

“I can’t help you, sir.”

“Please?”

Their eyes locked for a second, two seconds. Her shoulders rose and fell with a long breath. “You wouldn’t be trying to trick me into saying something that would get me in trouble, would you?”

He blinked. “Why should I wish to?”

“You ain’t a lawyer?”

“Why, no.” He shook his head.

She turned from the door, hand still upon the knob. “Doctor Ryce said if I went about spreading gossip over why I left, he would take me to court for . . .”

Her brow furrowed.

“Slander?” Noah supplied automatically, while his mind rebelled against the thought.

“That was the word. But Mrs. Bromley already knew. She was the cook.”

“She still is. She must have been the one who spoke to Joan.”
But of what?

Panic filled the scarred face. “Please tell her to stop, sir! I can’t afford to be sued!”

“Sued for what, Miss Spear?” Noah pressed, taking only one step closer for fear she would flee any second. “You have my word as a Christian and a gentleman—what you say to me will not leave this room.”

After studying his face for a long second, she moved her hand from the knob. Noah stood still, lest he frighten her away.

“You won’t think it’s important,” she said.

“Allow me to be the judge of that. Please?”

She bit her lip. At length she said, softly, “No one ever slapped my face before—not even my mother or father. I could bear bein’ screamed at, mind you. Even here, sometimes a guest will have a fit of temper when he’s in his cups. But if he ever put a hand on any of us, Mr. Pickering would show him the door.”

“Did Doctor Ryce
slap
you?” Noah asked. It was difficult to imagine a man so soft-spoken and nurturing harming anyone, but judging by the emotion in Miss Spear’s face,
something
had happened.

That’s why Joan telephoned,
he realized. If Doctor Ryce would mistreat a servant, he could possibly have done the same to his daughters.
If it’s true, we’ll find the vicar and marry tonight.
Hang the gown and cake. He would get Olivia out of that house.

“It was a accident, your Lordship,” Miss Spear continued, drawing her arms about herself. “Scorchin’ the dress. I was always careful with the iron. But I had such a beastly headache that I weren’t thinkin’ straight. I get them now and again, and powders only make me sick to my stomach.”

“Wait.” Noah shook his head, not comprehending. “Doctor Ryce slapped you for ruining a gown?”

She looked at him. “It was Miss Ryce who slapped me, your Lordship. She was awful fond of the blue sateen. The yoke had a sort of Chinese embroid—”

“
Olivia
Ryce?”

Miss Spear’s ruddy hand automatically went to her left cheek. Noah could not help but compare it with Olivia’s ivory white hands, so soft and delicate, with slender fingers and perfectly tapered pink nails. Hands that fit so neatly in his palm, making him feel strong and protective.

“Miss Spear,” he said. “This is very important. Are you positive this occurred the way you remember it? After all, you
did
say you had a headache.”

Her expression faded, as if she was resigned to the fact that he would take up for Olivia. Tears glistened in both eyes. “I didn’t know there was a red mark on my cheek till Mrs. Bromley asked me about it later.”

After needing a moment to digest this, Noah had to ask one more question. “Forgive me, Miss Spear. But could this have been in any way an accident?”

“It ain’t a accident when someone calls you a stupid skivvy at the same time, sir.”

If she were skilled enough as an actress to be fabricating the incident, Noah thought, she would be onstage somewhere instead of cleaning hotel rooms. He sighed. “Thank you for being forthright with me.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Carey,” she said softly.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Miss Spear,” he said. “I asked you for the truth.”

She hesitated. “You’ll remember your promise?”

“I will.” He realized he could pay back the courtesy she had paid him by giving her a bit more peace of mind. “And by the way . . . it’s highly unlikely that Doctor Ryce would ever come after you for slander. It’s not slander if it’s the truth.”

“Is that so, sir?” she said with faint hope in her tone.

“I would almost guarantee it.” He would not embarrass her by adding that as she probably had few financial assets, Doctor Ryce would not wish to pay an attorney to pursue a matter that would hardly raise eyebrows among most of his friends and family.

“But in the scant possibility that he does,” he went on, “you just write to me in care of Carey Hall in Danby-dale, and I’ll hire you the best lawyer in York.”

She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them her expression and posture eased as if a heavy load had been lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you, Lord Carey. You’re a kind gentleman.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged, not quite certain of anything for the moment.

“You are. And if it helps . . . it was the only time Miss Ryce ever struck me. As I said, it
was
her favorite gown.”

Eighteen

He needed time alone to think. When Mr. Pickering said there was indeed a room available, Noah gave the doorman a crown to pay the waiting coachman and another one to collect his portmanteau.

“May I borrow your telephone?” he asked the manager. Thankfully, Mr. Pickering allowed him privacy in the office once again.

He asked for Doctor Ryce’s home with hands a little shaky, even while knowing that one of the servants would answer and not Olivia or another family member.

“Doctor Ryce’s residence.”

Joan’s voice. Noah cleared his throat, but the lump did not go away. “Joan, Lord Carey here. Will you relay to Miss Ryce that I’ll not be able to come by after all?”

There was a brief silence followed by a stilted, hurried, “Yes, your Lordship. And good day to you as well.”

He understood her haste. The Ryce family in the parlour, naturally ceasing conversation at the ring of the telephone. Had they not broken the connection quickly, someone, possibly Olivia, could have motioned for the telephone. Then what would he say? He was an actor, but he would not be able to pull off pretending nothing was wrong.

This was more than a matter of indifference to those less privileged, Noah thought, dully unbuttoning his coat in his chamber. This was blatant cruelty. And he was not foolish enough to imagine it could be uprooted by reasoning with her.

Nor did he even wish to try, he realized. Whether or not a person of Olivia’s age could be taught compassion was not the question. He wanted a wife who already possessed that quality. He had loved an illusion. The illusion was crumbling. How could he ever feel the same about her?