A Poisoned Season (12 page)

“I’m afraid that my mother and I have quite different ideas of what makes for a satisfactory life. She looks no further than a high-ranking husband.”

“And you prefer intellectual pursuits?”

“Yes.”

“The two need not be incompatible.”

“No, of course not. But, invariably, no matter how enlightened one’s spouse is, a woman loses much of her freedom when she agrees to marry.”

“Theoretically, yes, but a good husband can broaden one’s view of the world. I’d never left England before my marriage. In fact, my mother only rarely brought me to London. So far as I knew, the world hardly extended beyond Sevenoaks and Kent.”

“It sounds as if you made an excellent choice for a husband. But for me, at this moment, I’ve so much that I want to do on my own. There is merit in discovering things independently.” We were rapidly approaching the southern edge of the park and sat on a bench near a fountain decorated with stone portraits of Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Milton.

“A sentiment with which your mother cannot agree.” She shook her head. “So unfortunate. I hate to see the spirit driven out of a young lady.”

“There’s no danger of that happening,” I replied, closing my parasol and tipping back my head, savoring the feeling of the sun on my face as I contemplated Lady Elinor’s comment. Had she not driven the spirit out of her own daughter by forcing her into an engagement with Mr. Berry?

My companion must have guessed my thoughts. “Isabelle’s situation is entirely different. I abhor gossip so shan’t recount the details, but suffice it to say that she is far better off away from Lord Pembroke. I hate to see her heartbroken, but she’s already beginning to recover. Mr. Berry does, after all, have his charms. But I’m sure I need not tell you that. He’s always held you in high regard.” Her voice held the slightest note of question in it.

“No more so than any other lady he happens to encounter. There
has never been any understanding between us.” My words had the desired effect. The tiny wrinkles around Lady Elinor’s mouth smoothed as she relaxed.

“Isabelle and I have been closer than the closest of friends ever since she was a tiny girl. If I had any doubt that marriage to Mr. Berry would bring her much happiness, I should never have agreed to the match. Now, in your situation, marrying the Duke of Bainbridge—”

“Would bring little lasting joy.” I snapped my parasol back open.

“You have already made one brilliant marriage. You have both rank and fortune. It is only natural, though, that your mother would grow concerned when she finds your actions being scrutinized by gossips. I’m afraid it’s due to your age, Lady Ashton. Were you an older widow, your romantic liaisons would be of far less interest.”

“Society has such vacuous standards. Sometimes I think I ought to live in Greece year-round.”

“Mr. Routledge took me there several times. Have you been to Delphi?”

“More magnificent views are not to be found on the earth. The crags are spectacular, and the way the fields of olive trees stretch all the way to the Itea Bay is mesmerizing.”

“Their leaves seem to shimmer in the sun. Will you go back to Greece soon?”

“I drank from the Castalia Spring to ensure it.”

“Ah, yes. Many poets have been inspired by those same waters.”

“I had no idea you were so well informed about Greece,” I said.

“I’m not, really. All I know is what anyone could pick up from Baedeker’s.”

“Where else have you visited?”

“All of the standard places in Europe, of course, as well as Egypt and India.”

“And what is your favorite?”

“St. Petersburg in the summer, when the sun never sets.” She rose
from the bench. “I see, Lady Ashton, that I have succeeded in cheering you up.”

“You have. I’m most grateful.”

“And I owe you thanks, too. I must confess to having wondered if there was…something…between you and Mr. Berry.”

“Let me assure you, Lady Elinor, that you will never have cause to worry on that front.”

“Please do not think less of me for having mentioned it.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“And know that you have a staunch supporter in me. I’m aware that you are suffering at the hands of gossips, and shall do all I can to counter their vicious stories. You won’t be left off any guest list of mine.”

A
lthough Lady Elinor had succeeded in improving my mood, I had to admit that this latest quarrel with my mother left me deeply unsettled. To distract myself, instead of returning home, I headed towards the library at the British Museum, hoping to begin researching the letters of Marie Antoinette’s confidant, Léonard. When I asked for assistance at the desk, I could not help remembering my first visit to the museum after my husband’s death. On that occasion, the staff had responded to me immediately because of the generous donations Philip had made to the Greco-Roman collection. Now, however, I had a reputation of my own, not only because of my donations to the museum, but also because of my efforts to encourage others to return important pieces to scholarly institutions.

“We are delighted to see you, Lady Ashton,” a short, ruddy-faced clerk said, snapping to attention the moment he saw me. “Is there anyone in particular with whom you would like to speak?” I briefly described for him the letters in which I was interested. His red cheeks took on an even darker color. “Then I am most pleased to offer my
services. I specialize in eighteenth-century manuscripts.”

“Do you know anything about Léonard’s letters?”

“Only that they exist. If I recall…” He came out from behind the desk and motioned for me to follow him. “I read a story recently about someone looking for them.” He led me through a maze of desks, each one piled with research material. A variety of gentlemen huddled over them, almost none glancing up as we passed. My guide stopped at a desk at the far end of the Reading Room and began to rummage through a stack of books heaped in a haphazard fashion.

“Is this your desk, Mr.—”

“Right. Most sorry. Adam Wainwright. This is my desk. I’m afraid I’m a tad disorganized. Ha! Here it is.” He opened a thick notebook, hardly having to page through it before finding the passage he sought. “Yes…yes…”

I did my best to try to read over his shoulder, but the angle was such that all I accomplished was to strain my neck. “What does it say?” I asked.

“Léonard’s letters were never located. I do wish I could be of more help.”

“These are your own notes?” I asked, indicating the notebook.

“Yes. I’m working on a book about the fall of the House of Bourbon.”

“And do you find that Marie Antoinette deserves her reputation?”

“She was naïve, undoubtedly, and perhaps not of more than average intelligence, but she was not cruel. She adored her children, and was, in the end, an extremely pious woman.”

“I imagine a looming guillotine would make most of us keenly religious.”

Mr. Wainwright grinned. “Quite right, madam. It was the queen’s confessor, Father Garrard, who preserved the letters she received from Léonard. Had he not, her jailors almost certainly would have destroyed them after her execution.” He dabbed a rather too gray
handkerchief across his brow. “I am certain Léonard kept those she sent to him but have never been able to determine what became of them after his death.”

I would have liked to tell him that the letters were at this moment in my own library but worried that admitting I had them might somehow bring danger to my household. I would, however, make a point of letting him read them once I’d solved all the puzzles before me. “Have you tried to find Léonard’s letters?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. “When things like that disappear into private collections, they are often lost entirely to scholars. If one knows who possesses them, there’s at least hope that the owner will allow them to be studied. But, often, it’s impossible to figure out who owns what.”

“This is precisely why I have been trying to convince collectors to donate significant pieces to the museum.”

“Yes, I have heard about your efforts.” He pulled a face. “It’s unfortunate that it is so difficult to persuade your peers to part with their treasures.”

“I know it all too well. I wonder if it would be feasible to at least catalog what people have tucked away in their homes.”

“A daunting prospect, Lady Ashton. Have you any idea how long it would take to do that at just one aristocratic estate?” I thought about my husband’s collection at Ashton Hall, the magnificent Derbyshire estate of the Viscounts Ashton. He had, in fact, kept his pieces cataloged, but I knew that was not common practice. “And aside from things that are displayed in houses, there are untold treasures, historical documents in particular, packed away in attics. To catalog those would be nearly impossible.”

“You’re undoubtedly correct.”

“If you’d like, you may borrow my copy of Léonard’s memoir. I don’t know that it will be of much help.” He handed a book to me. I thanked him and left the library, my thoughts scattering in more directions than I cared to count. I had an idea of how to begin my search
for the letters but wondered if they really would provide any insight into the murders in Richmond. I thought of Jane in prison. I thought of Mrs. Francis, and I felt more than slightly guilty that a good portion of my brain was occupied with thoughts of how I might begin to catalog the treasures of England’s country houses.

For the moment, the catalog would have to wait. I remembered the list I had found in Mr. Berry’s room. He had known where to find Marie Antoinette’s letters, something that, according to Mr. Wainwright, was not common knowledge. And our intrepid thief certainly had no difficulty figuring out who owned objects that had belonged to the French queen. If both of them could acquire this knowledge, certainly it was not beyond my reach.

Not feeling much like having another encounter with Mr. Berry, I decided to focus on the thief. That his identity remained a mystery did not deter me in the least. I would do what any lady would when trying to contact an unknown gentleman; I marched directly to the offices of the
Times
and placed an ad in the classifieds section. Tomorrow, buried in with pleas that
the lady in the pink dress near the Achilles statue
and that
the gentleman who so kindly bestowed upon me a rose at so-and-so’s ball
would come forward and identify themselves, my own request would appear:

To the gentleman who delivered the two pinks: You may find me in front of the Rosett a Stone at two o’clock Thursday.

Pleased with myself, I returned to Berkeley Square. I hardly realized how exhausted I was until I’d dropped into the most comfortable chair in my library, where Cécile woke me three quarters of an hour later.

“Beatrice has just arrived.”

Still groggy, I dragged myself to my feet, and Cécile took my arm. “I am worried about her, Kallista. She is extremely upset.”

Lizzie was standing in the hallway outside the drawing room and opened the door for us. “Will you want tea for Mrs. Francis, madam?”

“Yes, please,” I replied, thinking it was odd that Lizzie knew the identity of my caller. Surely Davis would not have sent her to hover outside the room. This thought was entirely forgotten, however, when I saw Beatrice’s tear-streaked face.

“The police have proof that Jane Stilleman delivered the poison to David’s room,” she said, pulling on her black-hemmed handkerchief with such force that I thought it would rip.

“My dear friend, sit,” I said, ushering her to a chair. “You must try to calm down.”

“This is too awful to bear,” she said, sobbing. “They will hang her, you know.”

“What is their evidence?” I asked.

“One of the housemaids was changing the bed linens the day before David died. While she was in the room, Jane came in with a bottle of shaving lotion. The maid remembers this, because the valet—”

“Stilleman?”

“Yes. He was also in the room and told Jane that it was not the proper kind of lotion. David always used Penhaligon’s, and this was from Floris. She insisted that it had been delivered for Mr. Francis and persuaded her husband to set it with the other toiletries.”

“Has this maid any reason to want Jane found guilty?” Cécile asked.

“Of course not. I’ve told you, Jane is a sweet girl. No one would want to harm her.”

“I know you’re distressed,” I said. “But we must look at the facts before us with as little bias as possible. Jane was having an affair. There
may be persons other than her husband who were upset by this. I shall come to Richmond tomorrow and see what I can uncover.”

“I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t turn to you.”

Davis opened the door. “Mrs. Brandon to see you, madam.” Ivy came in, looking more drawn and fatigued than I had ever before seen her. As soon as she saw Beatrice, however, she forced a bright smile and acted delighted to make the acquaintance. Beatrice, too, pulled herself together with remarkable speed. They conversed effortlessly, breezing through society’s favorite banal subjects, neither of them paying any real attention to what the other said. It was as if the exchange were perfectly choreographed.

I was unnerved to see how well Ivy had slid into the role of society lady, hiding her emotions, concerned only with putting on a polite appearance. And as for Beatrice, although I did not know her so well as I did Ivy, it was an extraordinary thing to watch her bury emotions that only moments before had completely overwhelmed her. I tried to catch Cécile’s eye, but she was busy removing Brutus from a battle with my velvet curtain. I’m sorry to say that the curtain appeared to have lost the struggle.

“Emily and Cécile, I’ve no desire to keep you from your charming friend,” Beatrice said. “Forgive my intrusion, and please accept my thanks for your assistance.” She took her leave just as Lizzie entered with a tea tray.

“Are you well, Ivy?” Cécile asked.

“Everything is lovely, thank you, Madame du Lac,” Ivy replied, watching the maid pour. “Those are beautiful teacups, Emily. Have you always had them?”

“I never took you for a connoisseur of china,” I said. Brutus, not pleased with being pulled off the drapes, turned his attention to Lizzie’s skirts. I picked up the dog, dropped him into Cécile’s lap, and dismissed the maid. “Come now, what is troubling you?”