Murder at Beechwood (26 page)

The girl scanned the room with large, worried eyes. “Did Mrs. Sanders notice my late start this morning?”

“Were you late? Well, no matter,” Eva assured her. She hoped she was correct, and that Connie wouldn't be facing a scolding later from Mrs. Sanders. “It's Boxing Day, and I suppose we're allowed a bit of leeway. Is everyone ready for their holiday later?”

Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, was a rare treat for the manor staff. Eva planned to spend the afternoon at her parents' farm outside the village, but first she needed to set her ladyships' gowns to rights. After a final inspection of the now nearly invisible stain, she moved Amelia's velvet off the table to make way as more staff gathered round.

She was just on her way to deliver the gown to Mable, the laundress, before settling in with needle and thread to mend the beaded strap on Lady Julia's frock, when Lady Amelia came bounding down the back staircase and launched herself from the bottom step. She landed with an unladylike thwack mere inches away from Eva.

“Good heavens, my lady!” Eva sidestepped in time to avoid being knocked off her feet and spilling her burdens to the floor. She hugged the gowns to her. “Is there a fire?”

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Eva. I didn't mean to give you a fright.” Lady Amelia's long curls danced loose down her back, and in her haste to dress herself she'd left the sleeves on her crepe de chine shirtwaist undone. “I was looking for you.”

“You know I would have been upstairs to help you and your sisters dress in . . . what?” She glanced at the wall clock. “Twenty minutes.”

Amelia Renshaw's sweet face banished any annoyance Eva might have felt. At fifteen she was a budding beauty. Not Lady Julia's glamorous, moving-picture-star beauty, but a quieter, deeper sort that one often finds in country villages like Little Barlow. Her hair was darker than Julia's, but still golden, a color reflected in her eyes, which sometimes shone hazel and other times brown, but always with those bright gold rims. If Phoebe took after their dear but somewhat plain mother and Julia took after their dashing father, Amelia had inherited a pleasing combination of both that would surely endure throughout her lifetime.

“If you're worried about your frock, my lady, look.” Eva held out the gowns, using one hand to unfold the bodice of Amelia's green velvet. “I've almost got the stain out, and Mable will vanquish what's left.”

“Oh, I don't care about that,” Amelia said with a dismissive wave. “You keep the gown. I wanted a private moment to wish you happy Christmas.”

“Lady Amelia, where would I ever wear such a garment? And as for Christmas, you wished me happy yesterday.” Slinging both gowns over her shoulder, she reached to button up the girl's wide cuffs. “Had you forgotten?”

“Yes, but yesterday was a work day for you, and this afternoon you'll be free to enjoy as you like.” She switched arms so Eva could button the other sleeve. “I may wish you happy from one carefree person to another. That's quite different, don't you think?”

Puzzled, Eva frowned at her young charge, but only for an instant. “I think it's a lovely gesture and I thank you very much, my lady.”

“There's more. I wanted you to know there's a special surprise in your box from Phoebe and me. Oh, there's something from Julia, too, something she purchased, very lovely and thoughtful, but Phoebe and I made our gift ourselves. But you're not to open your box until you're at home with your parents.” Amelia bounced on the balls of her feet with excitement. “We made one for your mother as well.”

“How sweet of you. But you're very mysterious, aren't you?” Eva reached out and affectionately tucked a few stray hairs behind Amelia's ear. In some ways she was blossoming into a gracious young lady, while in others she was still very much a little girl. One with sadly too few memories of her mother. Poor child, one parent lost to childbirth—along with the babe—and the other to war. Eva hoped she helped fill the gaps, on occasion at least, even if only in the smallest ways. “Whatever it is, Mum and I are sure to love and treasure it always. Happy Christmas to you, my lady.”

To her mingled chagrin and delight, Lady Amelia reached her arms around her and squeezed.

 

“With this deplorable weather keeping us inside, we'll have to use our imaginations to keep ourselves occupied this afternoon.”

Maude Renshaw, Countess of Wroxly—Grams, as Phoebe and her siblings called her—stood as tall as she had as a young woman, if the photographs were any indication. If anything, she seemed even taller now, although Phoebe knew that to be an illusion created by her predilection to always wear uninterrupted black, from the high-necked collars of her dresses to the narrow sweep of her skirts. With smooth hair the color of newly polished silver worn in a padded upsweep culminating in a topknot at her crown, Grams was a study in dignified elegance that caught the eye and held it whenever she entered a room.

Strengthening the illusion of Grams's Amazonian height, Phoebe's youngest sibling, Viscount Foxwood—Fox—walked at Grams's side, her hand in the crook of his elbow. Fox had yet to enjoy a major growth spurt, much to his chagrin as this set him a good head shorter than many of his classmates at Eaton. Together they led the small procession of family and guests into the Petite Salon, tucked into the turret of what had been the original house.

This room was one of Phoebe's favorites. Its creamy paneled walls offset by bright white wainscoting and an airy cove ceiling made a welcome contrast to the dark oaks and mahoganies in other parts of the house, while rich colors of scarlet, blue, and gold, and the rotunda of windows overlooking the south corner of the gardens, lent warmth and a cozy touch.

An enthusiastic blaze danced behind the fireplace screen, and Mr. Giles and the footmen, Vernon and Douglas, stood at attention, waiting to serve. The table had been laid with leftovers from last night's dinner—roast goose and venison and beef, with Mrs. Ellison's savory apple-chestnut stuffing, among other delicacies, and for dessert, the leftover Yorkshire pudding and cranberry trifle. Phoebe hoped Amelia could manage to reserve all remnants of trifle for her mouth today and not her attire. At any rate, it was all easy fare designed to allow the kitchen staff, along with the rest of the servants, to finish up early and set out on their afternoon holiday. The day promised adventures for everyone—for the servants as they pursued their personal interests, and, Phoebe thought wryly, for the family and guests as they endeavored to look after themselves for these next several hours.

“Where is my son? It's not like Henry to be late to a meal.” Lucille, Marchioness of Allerton, regarded her son's vacant seat at the table. It was no secret that Lady Allerton doted to extremes on her elder son—and always had. Phoebe regarded the marchioness. Where Grams's stoic self-discipline had sculpted her figure into lines of angular elegance, a less diligent outlook, and perhaps a habit of overindulgence, had softened the marchioness's figure, rounded her hips and shoulders and upper arms, and produced rather more chins than a body needed.

“He and Lord Owen must have gone out,” Grampapa remarked. He turned his broad face toward Mr. Giles, who perceived the question without needing to hear the words.

“I believe Lord Owen is still in his room, my lord. If Lord Allerton has gone out, he left no message that I know of.”

Lady Allerton's frown deepened. “Hmm . . . That, too, is most unlike Henry. Did he take his Silver Ghost?”

“No, my lady. His motor is still in the shed.”

“Hmm . . . how very odd.”

“Really, Mama, why all the fuss?” Lord Theodore Leighton—Teddy—reached for a roll and his butter knife with a bored expression. “Henry's a grown man.”

He fell silent without any further reassurance and buttered his bread with meticulous strokes as if creating a work of art. This proved no simple task, not for Teddy, and Phoebe quelled the urge to reach over and offer her assistance. The knife quivered in his grasp, bringing attention to the scarred flesh of his fingers and the backs of both hands. The rippled skin ended at his sleeves and reappeared in angry blotches above his collar to pull the left side of his face into a perpetual sneer. Phoebe wondered that he hadn't grown whiskers to hide the scars. Like Henry, this second son of the Leighton family was handsome, or had been, before the war had left its mark on him.

Mustard gas, in the trenches of the Battle of Somme. Phoebe remembered the day a distraught Lady Allerton had telephoned to deliver the awful news. Teddy's injuries had taken him out of action for nearly six months, but when everyone had expected him to return home, he returned to the trenches instead. He made it abundantly clear at every opportunity he wanted no one's pity, no one's help. He'd butter his own roll, thank you, if it took all morning.

Phoebe tried never to feel sorry for him, even tried to like him, but he made it a ticklish task, especially in moments like this. This might be Henry they were talking about, but he and Teddy were, after all, brothers, and Teddy exhibited not the slightest concern.

Still, while the elder generation discussed where Henry might be, Phoebe couldn't help hoping he might never return. She glanced across the table at Julia. Had her argument with Henry driven him away? She noted that Julia's arms were well-covered in deep blue chiffon, with a velvet shawl draped over that, to hide any evidence of last night.

Well, as Teddy had said, Henry was a grown man who might do as he pleased. Phoebe, on the other hand, saw little in her future now that the war had ended, other than an endless procession of luncheons, dinner parties, and a parade of potential beaux. She sighed.

A mistake.

“What's wrong, Phoebe?” Beside her, Amelia looked both pretty and smart in a new shirtwaist with blouson sleeves and ribbon piping that matched her eyes.

“Wrong? Nothing.” She hoped Amelia never learned of Henry's boorish behavior of the night before.

“Then why are you moaning?”

“I am not moaning. I sighed. There is a difference.” Phoebe leaned back in her chair and cupped her mouth to prevent Fox overhearing. Fox always seemed to be listening in on other people's conversations, storing away bits of information to be used at his convenience at a later time. “The truth is, I'm horribly bored, Amelia. I miss . . .” She paused. How to phrase this without sounding unfeeling and self-absorbed? “I miss the activity of the war. Not the war itself, mind you. I'm happy and relieved it's finally over. But we made a true difference to a good many people. And now . . . I fear life has lost its color.”

Her sister nodded, her eyes keen with understanding. “That all we'll have to look forward to from now on are parties and such, like in the old days?”

“You read my mind exactly. And all that seems so purposeless now. I've been thinking—”

“You should be thinking of finding a husband before the dust gathers on that shelf you're sitting on,” Fox whispered out of the side of his mouth, his gaze still fixed across the table at the elders as if he hadn't been listening in on Phoebe and Amelia.

“I'm
nineteen,
Fox. That hardly qualifies me for any shelf, and besides, what difference should it make?” Phoebe shook her head at him. “It's a new world, and women will no longer be relegated exclusively to the home. We have choices now.”

“That's right,” Amelia put in eagerly. “Many choices.”

Fox finally deigned to turn his face to Phoebe, his lips tilting in a mean little smile. “You think so? As you said, the war is over. The men have come home. Time for you ladies to return to the roles God designed you for.”

She nearly choked on her own breath. Only a throat-clearing and a glare from Grams prevented her from retorting—and perhaps wringing her brother's neck.

“I propose that directly following luncheon, Julia play the piano for us.” Grams pinned her hazel eyes on Julia, turning her
proposal
into an adamant command that brooked no demurring.

“And following Julia, I wouldn't mind regaling everyone with a song or two.” This came from Lady Cecily Leighton, Henry's maiden great-aunt. Phoebe glanced up at her, alarmed by the suggestion. Lady Cecily had proved herself thoroughly tone deaf on more than one occasion, and once Phoebe had had to endure an entire hour of jumbled and stumbling notes. If that weren't enough, the woman's outfit today reflected sure signs of a growing disorientation, with her striped frock overlaid by a knee-length tunic of floral chiffon. A wide silk headband sporting a bright Christmas plaid held most of her spiraling white curls off her shoulders and neck, giving her the appearance of some kind of holiday gypsy. The poor woman's maid must have been aghast when her mistress left her room.

“Of course, Cecily, dear.” Grampapa spoke softly and gently, as he did when Phoebe was small. His perfectly trimmed mustache twitched as he smiled. “We shall look forward to it.”

Phoebe managed to suppress a groan, but Fox could not. Grams shot another glance across the table, while Grampapa's eyebrows twitched out a warning.

“After Julia serenades us”—Fourteen-year-old Fox pulled a face—“and Lady Cecily, too, may we find something exciting to do? Grampapa, couldn't we take the rifles out for some skeet shooting? It's not so very cold. Is it?” He directed that last question to Henry's younger brother, Teddy, who thus far had been silently filling his plate.

“Fox,” Grams said with a lift of one crescent-thin eyebrow, “I believe indoor activities are more appropriate for days such as this.”

“Oh, Grams . . .”

“Fox.” Grampapa's stern tone forestalled the complaint Fox had been gathering breath to utter.