Shady Lady (19 page)

“Bad feelings all round,” agreed Thomas.

A long silence fell, companionable, and they watched the children feeding the swans.

After a while, Waldo stirred. “It’s all water under the bridge now. We’ve all mellowed in the last few years.”

“If that’s the case,” said Thomas, “what’s to stop you taking up where you left off—with the party, I mean? There are bi-elections coming up. You could stand in one of them. You’d be an asset to us in the House.” When Waldo looked skeptical, Thomas grinned and added sheepishly, “Grenville asked me to sound you out.”

“I can’t think why. I’ve been out of things for—how long is it now—eight or nine years? I know how to fight battles. I know nothing about politics.”

Thomas said, “I take your point, but your years as a soldier give you the kind of experience that is invaluable. At least think about it.
Seriously
, I mean, won’t you?”

Waldo hesitated only a moment. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Anyone for croquet? I promised the children we’d play. Maude has gone to fetch the others.”

“I’d like that,” said Jo.

As Thomas went to gather the children, Jo and Waldo walked up the incline to the turf. Waldo said, “You’re not the only one who can read eyes. I know what you’re thinking, Jo.”

She stopped and turned to face him. Eyes wide and bright on his, she said, “Go on, then. Tell me what I’m thinking.”

“You’re impressed. You’re thinking that if Lord Grenville wants me to join his party, I must be a worthy fellow.”

That’s exactly what she was thinking, but there was an edge to him that put her on the defensive. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Perhaps you’d like to see my war record? That’s impressive too.”

She couldn’t think of an amusing rejoinder, so she said nothing, but inside she was fuming. She felt as though he’d given her a set-down, and she couldn’t understand it.

After a thankfully uneventful dinner, Jo went upstairs to check on Eric. He was in his nightshirt, newly bathed, and sitting up in bed waiting for her. The maid was tidying up, but Jo told her she’d take care of things, so the young maid bobbed a curtsy and left.

Though not precisely awkward around Eric, Jo wasn’t always comfortable either. She felt fiercely protective of him, but she lacked, she supposed, a mother’s instinct to kiss and pet. And she was never more aware of this lack in herself than at his bedtime.

But there were other ways to show she cared. As far as possible, she read to him every night. She sat beside him on the bed. “Do you like it here?” she asked.

His eyes locked on hers. “Yes,” he said.

He was a happy, well-behaved boy. Everyone said so. There was something wrong with this picture, but Jo couldn’t put her finger on it, and now Maude had stirred up her doubts.
How do you get him to be so polite
? she’d asked.
My sons are holy terrors
. And Thomas had made a similar comment, not to her, but to his daughters.
Look at Eric! He doesn’t make a fuss just because it’s time to go to bed
.

But he wasn’t always well-behaved. He could be a holy terror too, like the time he’d broken into the
Journal
offices and later had thrown onions at her in Holy Trinity’s churchyard. Had he changed toward her just because she’d saved him from Mr. Harding? Was he good because he was afraid that if he misbehaved, she would send him back? No child should have that hanging over his head.

She wished she could talk things over with Waldo, but he was behaving very oddly. She would never have believed he could be so moody. He spoke to her only when she spoke to him first. It had taken her two hours to realize what he was doing, then she was furious with herself for being so pleasant to him.

She pushed Waldo and his moodiness to the back of her mind and concentrated on Eric.

“This is Uncle Waldo’s home, did you know?”

He nodded. “He says I can stay here as long as I like.”

That gave her a pang, but she kept her voice light and easy. “What do you want to do, Eric?”

He looked surprised at the question. “I’m going to stay with you, Aunt Jo. Jenny says I have to because you’re Papa’s sister.”

Jenny was eight years old and the elder of Thomas’s daughters. Jo didn’t know how to begin to sort out the tangle of a child’s logic, so she didn’t even try. Instead, she said, “I just want you to know, Eric, that you’re never,
never
going back to Mr. Harding’s school, and that’s a promise. Do you believe me?”

Round-eyed, he nodded.

It was perverse, but she was beginning to feel that if he would only do or say something naughty, she would be easier in her mind.

She smiled brightly. “Time for your bedtime story,” she said. “Look! I found this book in Mr. Bowman’s library and he very kindly loaned it to me.”

“Is it about the Trojan War?” he asked eagerly. “Uncle Waldo said he would lend me his very own book about the Greek heroes.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” She did not consider stories of blood and gore to be suitable for a child of Eric’s tender years. She held up the book in her hand. “These are Greek stories too—Aesop’s fables. Wouldn’t you like to hear about the tortoise and the hare?”

“I already know it. I have Papa’s book with his name in it. I know all the stories by heart.”

“Your papa?” This was something new. He’d never mentioned his father before now. “Do you remember your papa, Eric?”

“No. Mam told me. He brought presents for me at Christmas and on my birthday.”

“I see.” She tried to sound casual. “Who read the stories to you, Eric?”

“Mam did.” His little face puckered. “But that was before she fell ill. She was in bed a long time, then the angels came and took her to heaven.”

Jo felt something twist inside her. She imagined herself as that young mother, knowing the end was near, knowing that she had to give up her son to the care of others.

Eric was watching her. She swallowed the lump in her throat and said cheerfully, “Heaven is a good place to be.”

“That’s what Mam said. Are you going to read me a story?”

There was something in his eyes that gave her pause, something that told her this wasn’t the time to press him. She set the book down. “Move over,” she said. This done, she climbed onto the bed and stretched out beside him. “You know all Aesop’s fables by heart, do you?”

He nodded.

“Fine. Then
you
tell
me
the story about the hare and the tortoise, because it’s one of my favorites.”

Half an hour later, Waldo found them curled up together, fast asleep. The book had fallen to the floor. His first impulse was to shake Jo awake. His mood was swinging between temper and alarm. Mrs. Daventry, in all innocence, had offered him the latest copy of the
Journal
, and on the back page what should he find but Lady Tellall’s column. He knew what that meant. Jo had taken over from Chloë.

Just thinking about it made him want to roar. She didn’t understand the danger she’d put herself in, but he did. Now he understood why Jacob Fry had been sent to kill her. Chloë’s murderer—and he was sure Chloë had been murdered—must have read the
Journal
and leapt to the conclusion that either Jo had found Chloë’s diary and was getting her information from it or that she knew something without realizing its significance and might well publish it one day for the whole world to read.

The paper was rolled up in his hand, and he absently tapped it against his leg as he stared at the woman and child. Gradually, his softer feelings began to stir. They looked so innocent, so helpless, so much in need of a protector, but that didn’t make him feel any happier. There was too much at stake, too many things that could go wrong.

He moved closer, fascinated by the sight of Eric’s fingers entangled in her hair. These two were fast becoming inseparable. How had he allowed things to go this far? Because, of course, he couldn’t deny Jo whatever she wanted. It gave him pleasure to please her.

She, on the other hand, wasn’t so easily won over. She had only one standard for measuring a man—her husband, the inestimable, saintly John Chesney—and no man could live up to that.

His thoughts drifted to the debate at luncheon and the sparkle in her eyes when she’d challenged the comforting fictions men cherished about women. He’d wanted to laugh out loud. What was curious was that she was quite unaware of what she had revealed. Whatever the truth about her marriage to Chesney, she had changed and there was no going back.

Or was that only what he wanted to believe?

He gave a grunt of derision, mocking himself, and left the room.

C
hapter
19

I
t was the day of the Queen’s Drawing Room, the day that Cecy was to be presented to Her Majesty in St. James’s Palace, and the whole house revolved around the preparations for this grand occasion. Cecy, her mother, her father, Waldo, and Maude—all had to be got ready, and servants flitted from room to room, some with various costumes draped over their arms, others bearing the accessories that were essential for correct court dress. The presentation was to take place in the afternoon and afterward there was to be a celebratory dinner at the Clarendon Hotel, to which Jo and her aunt had been invited.

Jo was taking everything in, making mental notes for Lady Tellall’s next column, subject to Waldo’s approval. When he’d discovered that she’d taken over the column from Chloë, he’d been coldly furious and called her all kinds of a fool. She’d accepted his harangue meekly because he seemed so certain that it was Lady Tellall’s taking up her pen again that had provoked the attack on her. She’d been too clever for her own good, he’d told her. She’d insinuated that she knew more about Chloë than she did. Someone wanted to silence her and had damn near succeeded! From now on, anything she wrote for the
Journal
had to be submitted to him first for his approval. She was so shaken, she was only too happy to agree.

She was now in Cecy’s room, helping her get ready for her presentation. All she had to do was hand items to the abigail as they were needed. Lady Fredericka was there as well, but since she was already dressed, her movements were so severely restricted that her role was reduced to issuing orders.

It was like walking into a painting of a former era, a painting where the figures came to life. Jo remembered her grandmother wearing a dress that resembled the one her ladyship was wearing, and everyone said that Grandmother was hopelessly out of vogue even then. It had a hooped skirt, low bodice, fitted waist, and yards of embroidered silk. These court gowns were more formal than Grandmother’s and came with a long train that was attached at the waist.

Everyone’s nerves were stretched, especially Cecy’s. She was complaining bitterly that she would never manage to walk in a hooped skirt with its long train, and Jo inwardly sympathized with her.

“Nonsense,” said Lady Fredericka, not roughly but not gently either. “If I can do it, so can you. Watch.”

She deftly draped her train over her left arm. In her right hand, she held her fan, another essential accessory for formal court dress, as Jo had discovered.

“Are you watching, Cecy? Take slow, small steps.”

Her ladyship walked forward slowly, her carriage supple and graceful. “Curtsy to Her Majesty.” She made a deep curtsy to the abigail, whose hand flew to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Then curtsy to the prince regent,” and she curtsied to the bedpost. This time Cecy giggled. “And slowly take a step to the side before moving away. Remember, Cecy, never turn your back on the queen or any member of the royal family. Just gracefully fade away.”

“You forgot something, Mama.”

“I did?”

Cecy nodded. “You forgot to kiss the queen’s hand.”

Her ladyship laughed. “So I did. Something always goes wrong. You can count on it.”

Alarmed, Cecy cried, “What can go wrong?”

“Oh, little things. Your feathers may come undone, or your train may tear. That happened to one unfortunate girl the year I was presented. No one noticed till she was right by the dais where the king and queen were waiting. The poor girl’s nerves were so overwrought that she burst into tears, picked up her train, and fled. There was no need for it. The pages are there to help.”

“What if I sneeze, Mama?”

“Sneezing isn’t allowed.”

“But what if I can’t help it?”

Her ladyship sighed. “Ignore it as though it never happened.” She walked to her daughter and put her arms around her. “I felt exactly as you when I was presented, and so will every other young woman at the Drawing Room today. So you see, you’re in good company.”

Cecy gave a fluttering sigh and smiled.

There was a knock at the door, and a moment later Mr. Bowman entered. He, too, was dressed in garments of a former era—black satin knee breeches, dark blue embroidered silk coat, and embroidered white waistcoat. What Jo had not expected was the small sword at his side and the silver wig. His ensemble lent a wickedly rakish air. His resemblance to Waldo was more striking now.

He crossed to Cecy. “To mark the occasion,” he said, and he fastened a diamond necklace around her throat, then he turned her to face him and nodded approvingly.

“Oh, Papa. It’s lovely. Thank you.” Her voice was teary.

His voice was thick. “Your mama and I are so proud of you, Cecy, not because you’re beautiful—which you are—and not because you’re clever—which you must be because you’re Mama’s daughter—but because you turned out just the way we wanted.” He kissed her on the brow.

“Oh, Papa!”

“No tears!” declared her ladyship as everyone began to sniff and search for handkerchiefs. “Now see what you’ve done, Julian!”

Smiling, her husband dried her tears with his own handkerchief. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“For what?” She took his handkerchief from him and blew her nose.

“For raising such fine children.”

“We were lucky, Julian.”

“Yes, we were lucky.”

It was a private moment, and Jo sensed the unspoken messages that passed between them. She didn’t know why she envied them. They were an atrocious family. They loved and hated on a grand scale. They excelled at debating. If one said something was black, the other would say it was white. Sometimes they were too loud. They quarreled constantly and were not always quick to forgive. Then why did she find them so attractive? They’d been kind to her, of course, generous beyond anything, but so had the relatives who had opened their homes to her when she was a child. There was something about the Bowmans that defied description.

“Time to go,” said Mr. Bowman. “The carriage awaits. Cecy, take my arm.”

He and Cecy led the way. Jo and the maid followed well behind. In the entrance hall, a small group clustered, waiting for them. Mrs. Daventry and Thomas were there with the children. They were not going to court, so they were not dressed for the occasion. Maude looked stately, her regulation white feathered headdress fluttering like the sails of a sailing ship. Waldo was resplendent too, but unlike his father, he didn’t appear to be at ease in court dress. He kept adjusting his wig and small sword.

There were more kisses for Cecy, then they went outside to the carriage.

Eric said, “Aren’t you going with them to see the queen, Aunt Jo?”

“No,” she said. “The queen forgot to send me an invitation. But I don’t mind. Aunt Daventry and I have plenty to do here. And we’ll be going to the Clarendon later for dinner.”

“Where will I be?”

Thomas’s elder daughter, Jenny, answered his question. “With us, silly. Don’t you remember? Uncle Julian’s groom is going to show us how to take care of the foals.”

Waldo managed a quiet word with Jo before he entered the carriage. “I’ve sent a man to Chloë’s house to get those back copies of the
Journal
you told me about. Read them through. See if anything strikes you as odd.”

“I see. I’m to spend my afternoon poring over old copies of the
Journal
whilst you are cutting a dash at court?”

He stared at her hard, then chuckled. “Believe me, if I could, I’d change places with you. Drawing Rooms are boring. I’ll be standing for hours on end, talking to, for the most part, tedious people about tedious, trivial subjects. Cecy’s part will be over in five minutes, and I may not get a clear view of her anyway.”

“Then why go?”

He cocked his head to one side, studying her. “Because it’s important to Cecy that I should be there.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say
How kind
or something equally inane, and though she meant it sincerely, she feared another set-down, so she merely smiled.

“I’m reading your thoughts again, Jo.”

“Oh, go to blazes!”

He laughed. “I’ll see you later, then, at the Clarendon. And remember to read through those back copies of the
Journal
. Mark anything that looks odd or interesting. Now get back before you’re trampled in the stampede.”

Someone must have signaled the butler, for he opened the doors and a crush of laughing servants streamed down the steps and into the courtyard. As Waldo hastily entered the carriage, his father threw a handful of silver coins in the air. Only the butler and housekeeper kept themselves aloof from the fun. Everyone else made a dive for the coins, including the children. Jo came up with a shilling.

As the coach moved off, another handful of coins was thrown in the air.

Silver for good luck
, Jo thought.
I hope it rubs off on me
.

At St. James’s Palace, the queen had yet to make an appearance, so everyone stood around in little groups, speaking in hushed tones while they waited. Waldo was talking to his father when someone brushed against him. It was Viscount Morden.

“Bowman,” the viscount said and bowed.

Waldo inclined his head. “Morden,” he said. “What brings you to the Queen’s Drawing Room?” He couldn’t imagine anyone coming to such an event unless it was to support a sister or a wife as she made her curtsy to the queen, and he knew that Lady Margaret had already been presented.

The viscount smiled. “Why does anyone come to court,” he said, “except to keep abreast of things, and to see and be seen.”

Waldo concealed his distaste behind a bland smile. There were plenty of others like Morden who thought that rubbing shoulders with royalty added to their consequence. “It’s hard to see anyone in this squeeze,” he remarked casually.

He waited, sensing that there was more to come. He was right.

The viscount said, “I happened to read an extraordinary report about Lady Webberley in some provincial paper. It said that she was seen taking the ferry to France. Does this mean she has turned up and we all worried for nothing? What do her friends say?”

The result of this little speech was to focus all of Waldo’s considerable intelligence on Morden, though he did not betray it by the blink of an eye. A secret-service agent whose expression revealed what he was thinking did not last long in His Majesty’s service.

He deliberately frowned. “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” he said. “Where did you read this?”

“Where?”

“What was the name of the paper?”

“Oh. I believe it was the
Avon Journal
. My mother showed it to me. Someone had given it to her because she was anxious about Lady Webberley’s disappearance. I was hoping I could assure her that the report is true?”

There was nothing remarkable in the viscount’s concern for his mother, and Waldo might have believed him except that his words were too pat, his eyes were too intense. It struck him, then, that it wasn’t Lady Brinsley but the viscount who wanted to be reassured.

Now he was thoroughly confused. Did Morden want the report to be true or untrue? If he was the killer, the report wouldn’t matter to him because he would know that Chloë was dead.

He couldn’t be the killer. It was too far-fetched. What motive could he have? On the other hand, he was present at that fateful house party.

“If I hear anything,” said Waldo, “I’ll let you know.”

They parted company then, and Waldo rejoined his father. Mr. Bowman studied his son’s expression, then glanced over at the viscount. “What did he want?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Waldo thoughtfully, “but I mean to find out.”

The footman who had been sent to Chloë’s house to fetch back copies of the
Journal
returned also with letters from Stratford and a traveling box with Eric’s name on it. The housekeeper had him bring everything up to Jo’s chamber, but Jo did not get around to examining them till it was almost time to get ready for dinner at the Clarendon.

She opened the package from Mac Nevin first. It contained the circulation lists she’d asked for and a note to the effect that everything was going well at the
Journal
, though there were no more letters for Lady Tellall respecting Lady Webberley. Setting the lists aside, she went on to the next letter.

It was from Mrs. Sutherland, the vicar’s wife. She wrote satirically that Eric’s grandmother had made a miraculous recovery, but not so miraculous that she wanted Eric back. She was simply too old to look after the boy. Besides, they were practically strangers. He was better off at boarding school.

The letter went on:

I’m sure Mrs. Foley’s illness was just a ruse to get rid of Eric and save face at the same time so that no one could claim that she was coldhearted. The vicar doesn’t like to hear me speak unkindly of the woman, but I know it’s true. She doesn’t want any reminders of Eric, hence the box with the few things he possesses. I think what you are doing, Mrs. Chesney, is truly admirable and selfless.

May God bless you.

Respectfully,

Adelaide Sutherland

Jo thought the ending to the letter was rather flowery, especially as she hadn’t done very much for Eric, or at least nothing that Mrs. Sutherland could have known about. She was sure Waldo wouldn’t broadcast the fact that she’d rescued Eric by attacking his headmaster, not when she’d ended up in Bow Street for her trouble.

The passage about Mrs. Foley didn’t surprise her. She’d allowed Eric to go to a monstrous boarding school, without a protest, when his mother died.
Coldhearted
didn’t do her justice. She was a nasty piece of work.

There were other letters, but nothing of interest, so she lifted the box onto the bed. It wasn’t very heavy. She could easily have carried it to Eric’s room and let him have the pleasure of opening it himself. What made her hesitate was a distrust of Mrs. Foley’s motives. She had never liked the woman, and after reading Mrs. Sutherland’s letter she liked her even less.