Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (21 page)

Morley stumbled into the kitchen, almost knocking Maddie over. The spindly boy shook with excitement. “Did you hear? The Justice says it’s Stephen’s body that were in the cove. Charlie just run out to go there.”

“
Parbleu
.” Bettina pressed her hand to her temple. She swayed with dizziness and plopped down in a chair.

Chapter Fifteen

“I know Stephen were a chucklehead.” Seated on her bed in the attic, Kerra frowned. She held a black shirt and shot a needle in and out of a seam. “Never no friend o’ mine. But I’m that sad for Charlie, and their mamm. Insisted on mendin’ this for him, for the funeral.”

Bettina sat beside her on the crackling straw mattress. Two days had passed since Morley’s announcement. “I am sad for them, too.” She gripped her hands in her lap. “Do they know how he died?”

“Blow to the head, the Justice said. So Charlie told me.” Kerra screwed up her little face. “Skull were crushed in on one side.”

“Could he have fallen down the cliff, drunk perhaps?” Bettina bit down on her lip, picturing such a blow. She wanted it to be an accident, no one at fault.

“Nay, no other scrapes on him. He were killed and dumped in the sand.” Kerra dropped the shirt and grabbed Bettina’s hand. “Where’s Mr. Camborne been?”

“I hope you have not listened to Old Milt. Those ridiculous tales of his.” Bettina’s chest tightened. “What does Charlie think happened to his brother?”

“Drunk, aye … and probably fightin’ with someone.”

“But why would the killer dump the body in the cove for everyone to see?” Bettina squeezed Kerra’s fingers. “A drunken brawl, I am certain. Mr. Camborne, he has been in London. Far away from here.”

*
****

In Bronnmargh’s library, Frederick stumbled over the sentence for a second time, but Bettina hardly noticed. She stepped over to the window and stared out.

“Mademoiselle, what is the matter?”

“Pardon?” She turned and forced a smile. “It is nothing. Say it again, the sentence.”

Mr. Camborne had been gone almost two weeks. Stephen’s death, the whispers in the village, all swirled in her mind. She ached to discuss matters with Camborne, but didn’t know where to begin.

“May we be done for the day?” The child gave her an impish grin.

“Mrs. Pollard has not returned yet.” The housekeeper had asked Bettina to look after the boy while she went to her cottage.

Frederick hopped up from his stool. “Mrs. Pollard left some tarts in the kitchen. I’m hungry. Let’s eat one.” He opened the library door and walked down the hall.

Bettina followed him into a spacious, flag-stoned kitchen at the rear of the manor—a better equipped place than the inn. Oiled cast-iron implements hung over the hearth, a roasting-jack with weights sat in the large fireplace. She picked up a crockery pitcher near the chimney piece. “Frederick, fill this at the pump. I will heat water to wash our hands.”

“Wash our hands, why? But, Mademoiselle, we have a tap here in the kitchen.” Frederick pointed to a stone basin in an alcove beside the back door. “We have inside water. Uncle says there’s a cistern on the roof. You have to pump the water up there to store and it falls down through the wood pipes when you open the tap.” He proudly turned the tap, releasing water into the basin.

“Inside water.” Bettina smiled, filled the pitcher and poured water into a three-legged kettle. She lit a fire and placed the kettle in the fireplace. “Too bad everyone cannot afford such a luxury.” She thought of her weariness of lugging water from the pump at the inn. “My mother always liked me to wash my hands before I ate. She said cleanliness keeps away disease.”

“Where is your mother?” Frederick splashed the warmed water over his hands. “The plates are in that cupboard.”

“She is in France
… I think.” Bettina dismissed any sadness, opened the cupboard and admired the bone china stored there. She was pleased that Mr. Camborne didn’t purchase cheap imports from his Mrs. Hopper in Exeter. She and the boy each ate a sticky gooseberry tart. The sweetness tasted delectable.

Mr. Slate walked in like a black wraith, helped himself to a tart, and left again, registering nothing at Bettina’s presence.

She couldn’t help a cringe. “Does that man ever speak to you?”

“Mr. Slate ‘does not care for children’. He told me that after I came,” Frederick replied with mock arrogance, puffing out his cheeks.

“How awful, what a dreadful person.” No one should speak to a child that way, especially one who just lost his mother. As she had a few times before, she wondered what became of the boy’s father.

“Do you want to see my room? You've never been upstairs, have you?”

“I do not know if I should.” She was curious, but thought better of it. “Perhaps not.”

“It will be all right.” Frederick clasped her hand and urged her into the dining room.

Coldness remained in this shadowy part of the house. Bettina shuddered, feeling ill-disposed to enjoy a tour. The child led her to the staircase, but she hesitated before the first step.

“Do you like living here, Frederick?” She rubbed her chilled arms, realizing she ought to have kept that question to herself.

“Most of the time. Mrs. Pollard lives near the village, she has no husband … he died. Mr. Lew lives in the village too—he watches the horses and drives the coach. So there’s no one to keep Uncle Everett company except me.” Frederick ran up a few steps on the faded red carpet.

“What about Mr. Slate?”

“Oh, him. Yes, he lives here too. He has a room on the ground floor, in the back. He’ll hide there now, because he doesn’t like … visitors.” The child had bent towards her to whisper the last word, his brow furrowing. “Come on up, Mademoiselle.”

“Why does your uncle not hire a governess for you, since he travels away for business?” Bettina followed him up the curving staircase, sliding her hand along the worn walnut banister.

“I don’t think he’d like a stranger living here. Mr. Slate worked for his father, my grandfather, and Mrs. Pollard has been here a long time.” His trusting innocence was sweet. When they reached the landing and passage, he showed her to the first door on the left. “This is my room.”

Frederick invited her into his chamber, a room with a four-poster bed, a chest of drawers, clothes press and washstand. The old and colorful wallpaper depicting scenes from nursery rhymes confirmed this room was meant for a child at its inception. Two windows overlooked the north side of the house. A jumble of toys were scattered on the floor.

“This is cozy, very nice,” she said, charmed by the room’s brightness, the yellow counterpane and light green rug. “But you should clean it up now and then.”

The boy scoffed and they returned to the passage.

“This is Uncle Everett’s room.” He opened the door directly across.

Conscious of the impropriety, Bettina still couldn’t stop herself from peeking in.

An oak, curtained four-poster bed with a paneled headboard dominated the room. An elegant highboy, a clothes press cabinet and a sitting area arranged around a white marble fireplace filled out the chamber. She inhaled the master’s spicy scent that lingered there.

“Close the door, please. We should not invade your uncle’s privacy.” She tingled with the pleasure of glimpsing this intimate part of him, but forced herself to turn and walk toward the stairs.

“No, Mademoiselle. Let me take you to the upper floor. Where the telescope is.”

“Oh
…
d’accord
.” She remembered that snowy walk down the hill when Camborne had mentioned stargazing. Then she thought she must be daft to roam anywhere in this mausoleum. “If it is not difficult to—”

“It isn’t.” Frederick’s eager face encouraged her to push aside her reluctance.

Frederick took an oil lamp from his chest of drawers and she followed him down the hall to the back of the manor.

“Such a gigantic place for so few people,” Bettina said half to herself, trying to ignore the shadows lurking in the corners. But wasn’t this waste of space common among the wealthy? She thought of the palaces she had known in France—too much opulence and not enough warmth. Except that she remembered her family as living in bright and airy rooms.

“Uncle Everett told me our great, great, I’m not sure how many greats, grandfather had eleven children. He built this house for all of them.” The boy opened a door at the hall’s very end, revealing a bare narrow stairway twisting up into darkness. “These are the servant stairs.”

“On second thought
… maybe we should not go.” Bettina’s skin prickled. She reached out her hand, but missed Frederick’s shirttails as he darted up the stairs. Forced to climb after him, she followed the bobbing light and the fishy odor of pilchard oil. At the landing they turned left, passing through a double set of doors and out onto a balcony.

“The garden is below,” the boy said. “My jungle looks even messier from up here.”

Relieved to be outside, Bettina leaned on the stone balustrade and breathed in the cool refreshing air. She looked straight down, seeing the outline of plants and the wall. The sun dipped low near the horizon, brushing over Sidwell in a stroke of red. The waves slapped at the cliffs beyond.

As the breeze ruffled her hair, she harked back, as she had almost every night, to Camborne’s kiss in the library. She wished he shared this with her. Hugging herself, she longed to feel his arms around her. She brushed her fingers languidly over her lips
…

“Mademoiselle, are you listening?” Frederick asked in irritation, sharper than she’d heard from him before. “You have to look in here
… the telescope?”

“Of course I am listening. Let me try it.” She shook off her fugue and approached the large telescope perched on a stand just outside the doors.

“Uncle says you must always treat it with care, it’s a very delicate instrument.” He stumbled over the last two words, and they both laughed at his effort to mimic his uncle.

Bettina stared into the eyepiece and viewed the full moon starting to rise, distinguishing the vague outline of craters.

“Uncle tried to teach me about the consta … lations. But I couldn’t remember the odd names. Something about a big bear … and a Queen Cassie something.” He shook his golden curly head. “But none of them looked like what he said to me.”

“Maybe we had better go back in, the wind is starting to get cold.” Bettina stooped to pick up the guttering lamp.

“I’ll beat you down, see if I don’t.” Frederick dashed off, vanishing into the manor’s gloom.

“Come back! Frederick!” She rushed inside and toward the stairs, but something out of the corner of her eye distracted her—a large draped object propped against the wall in the passage.

Bettina stepped over and lifted the cloth. Cobwebs stuck to her fingers, turning to shimmering strings when she cast the lamp near. Revealed was the painting of a beautiful woman with pale blonde ringlets cascading down her shoulders, pink bowed lips and blue eyes. Her frozen smile looked more haughty than demure. On closer inspection, a glassy deadness peered out from those eyes, but that might have been the fault of the artist.

This could be Camborne’s wife! Filled with an absurd jealousy over a painting, Bettina dropped the cloth. If he’d seriously wanted to hide this portrait, there were better places than open hallways.

Back on the first floor, Bettina heard Mrs. Pollard calling from downstairs. “Frederick, go down and tell her you need your supper now.”

The boy scampered off. Bettina stood alone in the hallway and glanced at the master chamber door. Unable to pass up this opportunity to know more about him, she took a deep breath, shoved down her doubts, opened the door and slipped inside. She crossed to Camborne’s linen press, a mahogany piece with molded cornices. She creaked it open and ran her fingers along the garments folded there, stroking the soft wool. She poked through the items on top of his chest of drawers—a teak calling card case, silver toothpick and silver-backed brush—careful to put everything back exactly the way she found them. Camborne seemed to be a man who preferred simplicity and order—a man who couldn’t kill anyone. She noticed that Mrs. Pollard could dust more efficiently, but Bronnmargh didn’t have enough staff to care for it. She decided to leave before Mr. Slate caught her.

Above the fireplace mantel was a large square discoloration on the wallpaper where a huge painting once hung. It might have been the one in the upstairs hall. Had Camborne gazed at his wife’s portrait with desire when their love was fresh, only removing it after their marriage soured and she … left?

A gold pocket watch lay on the mantle. She picked it up. Engraved on the back were the words,
‘To Everett, with all my love. Forgive me.’ The watch looked new. Had his wife sent this recently, begging to be taken back? Did this prove she was alive? Or had some other woman sent it? It occurred to her that Camborne might have several women eager to take his wife’s place. Ladies of style and polish he could be wooing right this minute in London. Even if few could surpass her aristocratic breeding, Bettina hardly measured up in her depleted situation. She clattered the watch down and hurried from the room and down the stairs, that jealousy washing over her again.