Learning to Waltz (31 page)

“Surely,” Evan suggested, “Mrs. Carlington must have had something to say about that?” She wasn’t his mother, of course, but as far as he could tell these boys knew nothing about that. And surely any woman—any
person
of compassion—would protect a child from a bully.

Shrugs and more headshaking. “Rumor is he beat her too.” That one was true.

“Nobody’s hardly seen her in a long time.”

“Must be mighty uncomfortable for her at the house just now,” Evan commented.

“Oh, he’s already thrown her out,” Radnor informed him. It was news to several at the table, it seemed, and they happily added more black marks to the tally against Deborah’s brother.

“Where is she then?” Evan asked. “Surely she’s not been jailed?”

“She’s staying with old Mrs. Maddox at the Doll House.”

“The Doll House? Does she make them?” Evan wanted to know.

“No, no,” replied one of Radnor’s friends. “Just that the place is hardly bigger than a little girl’s dollhouse. So it’s come to be called that.”

Mrs. Maddox, Evan was told, had been housekeeper to the Carlingtons “since before God was born.” She had retired—or been fired by Mr. Carlington in one of his rages, no one seemed quite sure—a year or two ago. “Before God was born” might encompass little more than ten years to these youths, Evan realized, but even at that she would have known Deborah at least briefly before she’d bolted from her prison.

It seemed odd that none of the conversations rippling around the room had anything at all to say about Deborah. Considering all the old and new infractions the good people of Lydford were eagerly using to flay Robert Carlington, abuse of his daughter would have seemed a natural addition to the litany.

Evan wasn’t about to mention the subject—he had no desire to aim their curiosity her way. But later, when the bar had closed, he took advantage of his guest privileges to order an expensive brandy as a nightcap. He engaged in some obligatory small talk with the innkeep as he cleaned up the evening’s mess and then asked if the Carlingtons had not had a daughter in addition to the son from hell.

“They did indeed. But she’s not been heard of in years, so far as I know. Funny thing, though. Another gent was in here asking about her two or three weeks back. Talked to some of the patrons, and I’m sure he didn’t get anything but speculation. Guess they used it up back then. It’s been so long, a lot of folks’ve pure forgot.”

Evan put himself to bed and lay in the darkness, thinking.

By half past five the next morning Evan was awakened by all the bustle of a new day at an inn packed to overflowing. He had managed only a few short hours of much-needed sleep. He felt like an old man as he clambered out of bed and rang for hot water. He never had gotten his bath the night before—the staff had been far too busy, and this morning would be no better.

Resigning himself to another day coated in dust, he washed as well as he could, shaved, and donned a clean shirt, cravat and waistcoat. Someone had found time overnight to brush his coat and polish his boots to something approaching a shine, so he at least looked human when he appeared in the coffeeroom for breakfast.

He hoped that was still true at nine when he stood before the door of the Doll House.

Evan knocked, despite having no clear idea what he could say or do. He had no standing, was not even a resident of the county. He was laughable as a character witness, having never met Mrs. Carlington until now, three days after her husband’s death. Most likely Deborah’s brother was just blowing hot air about her involvement, but Evan hoped to have a clearer opinion after meeting her.

The woman who opened the door was definitely
not
Deborah’s mother. She was a lummox of a woman, nearly as tall as he was himself, with little of grace or beauty and, just at the moment, an aspect so forbidding that Evan found himself wanting to turn around and walk away.

“You must be Mrs. Maddox?”

“Aye. What’s your business?”

“I understand Mrs. Carlington is staying with you?”

If she’d been a dog, she would have growled. “We don’t need no tourists.”

Evan managed to get his elbow in the door. It would be bruised the next day, he was sure. “Please, ma’am…  I’m a friend of her daughter’s.”

“Of Debby’s?” The growl altered somewhat in timbre. She took the card he offered and looked at him skeptically.

“Please ask her if she’ll see me. I promise I’ll leave you in peace if she says no.”

Mrs. Maddox must have been reasonably sure what the answer would be, for she admitted him to the little parlor—“Do watch your head, sir”—rather than leaving him in the street.

There was little enough here to occupy him while he waited; the room was smaller than many closets. It boasted a fireplace that heated the whole cottage and opened through to the kitchen. A kettle hung on a pothook over the little pile of wood that burned there. Two simple upright chairs, a small table, a wooden chest, and a well-used broom constituted all the furnishings. The place was immaculately tidy; any sort of clutter would quickly push the inhabitants out the door, and she had been a housekeeper, after all… now housing her former mistress. It was a strange world.

He could hear the murmur of voices, thought he heard Deborah’s name. Then came the tread of uneven footsteps.

His first thought was that this could not be Deborah’s mother, either. Surely she was too old, too small, too frail, too drab. It was impossible to say what color her eyes or hair had been; the former were clouded by cataracts, the latter showed only gray where it was not covered by her cap.

Leaning heavily on a cane, she limped to the nearest chair. Not until she was settled there, a ragged shawl arranged around her shoulders and another draped across her lap by Mrs. Maddox, did she so much as glance at her visitor.

She offered coffee, mostly, he thought, to cover a certain nervousness. He accepted, mostly for the same reason, and Mrs. Maddox stepped out into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry. Won’t you sit down?” A gesture of the hand, surprisingly graceful despite the deformities of arthritis, invited Evan to the other chair, so close to hers that their knees nearly touched. What he’d found most unsettling as she entered the room was the total lack of the natural elegance of movement that characterized her daughter. But it was unfair to expect anyone to limp gracefully. Seated, it was just possible to believe they were related.

She peered at his card. “So, Mr.—Haverfield, is it? My daughter sent you?”

Evan was forced to deny it. Perhaps she thought he was a solicitor or some such, as Geoffrey Radnor had done; but whereas Radnor knew full well that precious few solicitors could afford to entrust their feet to Hoby, Evan felt sure Mrs. Carlington had never heard of England’s preeminent bootmaker and would certainly not recognize his boots.

“No, ma’am. She doesn’t know I’m in Lydford. I’ve not seen her in—a few weeks. And as far as I’m aware, she knows nothing of your—er, situation.”

“I wrote her on Monday about her father’s death, but not—well, I expect you’ve heard what’s being said.”

He smiled at her apologetically. “Within two hours of my arrival yesterday. I’m sorry to say, you’re rather a celebrity.”

“Hmph.” She turned her gaze toward the little window. Evan had the impression that whatever she saw was something else entirely.

“I plan to attend the inquest this afternoon. I want to know what happened.”

She turned back to him, brows raised in inquiry.

“Surely you know of the inquest?”

“Oh yes. But I am surprised that a stranger, apparently passing through Lydford merely to see the gorge, would waste half the day at an inquest into the death of a hated man in a hateful village. It makes me wonder, just what is your relationship with my daughter?”

He studied the floor between his boots. “I hope to persuade her to marry me, ma’am.”

There was a moment’s silence. He looked up.

“Well.” She spoke matter-of-factly, almost disinterestedly. “You seem to be a nice enough young man.” Pointedly she inspected his attire. “Judging solely by your clothing, I would guess that you’re reasonably well-to-do. And I see nothing in your appearance to disgust a young woman.”

Evan grinned and murmured politely, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Surely you’re not here for my approval?”

“No, no. I had no intention of making your acquaintance at all, quite honestly.”

“You don’t seem very sanguine about your prospects.”

“She’s already refused me once, you see.”
Twice, to be honest.

“Good for her!” She waved a hand back and forth. “I’ve nothing against you personally, mind. I am not a great believer in the institution of marriage, however.”

“I quite understand—”

“She was not merely being coquettish?”

Evan almost laughed. “Coquettish? Deborah? You don’t know her very well if you think—”

He broke off abruptly as Mrs. Carlington flinched, coloring up in a way that seemed all wrong in an old woman. Touching her knee, he apologized in a softer voice. “I was forgetting how long it’s been since you’ve seen her.”

Mrs. Maddox could have chosen no better moment to appear with the coffee. Without doubt, she could hear all that passed in the parlor, and Evan wondered if she had been awaiting her cue. The coffee was poured and distributed, the sugar and cream offered and stirred. Mrs. Maddox seated herself on the chest under the window, rather like a guard dog.

Evan didn’t mind.

Mrs. Carlington had regained her composure. “If you want to know what happened, you could save a lot of time and bluster. Why don’t you ask me?”

“I feared it would be an unwelcome intrusion.” But her tone was resentful, and he saw that it was also an insult, as though
her
thoughts on the subject were of no account. He gestured toward her with one hand. “Please, ma’am, tell me.”

“He was brought home rolled in a blanket, dead as a fencepost. Neck broken, one side of his head bashed in. I’m told the girth snapped.”

That was Deborah’s voice, the cold, hard version.

“And no,” she continued, “I had nothing to do with it. I’m sure you’re wondering and too polite to ask.” She did not make it sound like a compliment.

“To be honest, ma’am, it wouldn’t matter to me.” With some surprise, he realized it was the truth. A moral failing, no doubt, but there it was.

“Not that I haven’t thought about it a hundred times.”

Evan finished his coffee. “Tell me, would your son be likely to listen to reason?”

Both women shook their heads.

“He’s no blood o’ hers,” asserted Mrs. Maddox. “And he got all his father’s worst traits.” She stood up and collected the coffee cups. “But if ye go, sir, ye might ask if someone could pack up her clothes. That is, if he ain’t burned ’em already.
He
don’t want ’em, it’s sure, and she’s got naught but what’s on ’er back.”

Mrs. Carlington seemed to be blushing again. It was embarrassment, he supposed, at having all her dirty laundry aired—quite literally—in front of a stranger.

Half an hour later, Evan was admitted to another house by another reluctant servant. This one was not protective so much as lazy. He was also soiled, smelly, and shifty-eyed. But given the price of a couple of drinks at the Castle, the fellow shambled off with another of Evan’s calling cards.

Mr. Carlington was apparently in no hurry to discover what his visitor wanted. Evan was left to cool his heels for half an hour in the chilly, threadbare parlor.

Surprisingly, the place seemed clean enough. Mrs. Carlington had been in residence until very recently, of course, and presumably some other housekeeper had taken the place of Mrs. Maddox when she retired. Someone was doing the best they could with a bad lot.

Bright rectangles showed on the walls where paintings had been removed for sale. What rugs remained on the floor were too worn to be worth anything, and the draperies should have been replaced years ago. What had been a fine plastered ceiling—not an actual Adam, Evan was pretty sure, but a well-executed copy—was cracked and flaking. Furnishings were sparse; probably the best of those had been sold as well, along with whatever
objets d’art
might once have graced mantel and sideboard. It was a sad place, scented with must and memories.

He wondered when a happy sound had last been heard here: someone whistling or some female Carlington accompanying herself on a long-gone instrument. It was hard to imagine her singing anything but a lament.

He was in a mood to pity the proud new owner of this ruin rather than despise him. Accounts were uniformly negative, but accounts could be wrong. Certainly his father had done him no favors, of blood or upbringing. But that same blood ran in Deborah’s veins, to quite different effect.

Subduing his impatience with the long wait, Evan smiled at his host when he sauntered into the room and offered his hand. Carlington shook it, though his expression was wary.

“Afternoon, Mr…  Sorry, I didn’t get your name. What can I do for you?” His voice was curt. “The household is in mourning, you must know.”