Escaping Notice (22 page)

“I see.” Gaunt picked up the cap. He studied it at length before
throwing it back on the table. “Did she find anything else?”

“This.” He unfolded his handkerchief and laid it carefully over
Gaunt's palm. “It was caught in the rim of the cap.”

Gaunt picked up the hair and held it in the light. It glinted
pale gold in the sunshine. “Pale blonde or gray — difficult to
say.”

“It could belong to my aunt.”

“Or a man,” Gaunt suggested. “It is about six inches long, a
length more suited to a man.”

“It was caught in the rim. My aunt's hair is cut into a short
fringe over her forehead.”

“So it is.” Gaunt sat back and steepled his fingers in front of
his mouth. He tapped his front teeth briefly with the tips of his
index fingers, before he lowered and fisted his hands on the desk.
His movements seemed designed to give the impression of thoughtful
deliberation. “Are you of the opinion that your aunt decided to
murder you and your brother?”

He shook his head. “Not Lionel. Never Lionel. The sun rose and
set with him in her eyes.”

“And what about you?”

“She did not like me. And yet I cannot believe she would do me
any serious harm —
o
ther than a tongue
lashing or two, that is.”

“Had you done anything recently to anger her?”

Hugh laughed ruefully and rubbed his neck where his beard
scratched like a handful of spiders. “I asked her to leave Ormsby
and move into a nearby cottage, Dower House, to be precise. I was
hoping to marry and thought her presence in the house would cause
strife.”

“I see. And if you were … gone, she would be able to stay?”

“Perhaps,” Hugh matched Gaunt's careful tone. “However, she
would never have harmed Lionel. Trust me.”

“Did you not indicate that no-one knew Lionel had accompanied
you?”

Hugh had hoped Gaunt had forgotten. “Yes. It was a last minute
arrangement.”

“Then I must speak to the vicar before we come to any
conclusions,” Gaunt said, giving Hugh a small reprieve. “I'm
curious about the reason your aunt was not enthusiastic about Mr.
Castle visiting the vicar. And there are a few other avenues left
to pursue. If you can arrange it, I have some questions I would
like to put to your aunt.”

“Unfortunately, she is unwell and has remained in bed.”

Gaunt's brows rose. “Hiding?”

“Not her, no. And I have never known her to languish in bed. She
is most certainly ill.”

“Fear or conscience?”

“Heart. I can only hope it does not prove fatal.”

“I'm sorry.” Despite his words, Gaunt’s face wore a hard,
implacable expression. “However, questions remain, especially in
view of these garments.”

Hugh grunted and stood up. “I appreciate your thoroughness. I
suppose it is what I am paying you for.”

“Do not come to any conclusions, yet.” Gaunt stood as well,
collecting the garments. “I'm certain we do not have the entire
story. Despite your aunt's apparent motive, she may still be
innocent.”

“I hope so.” Hugh accompanied him to the door. “I have had my
differences with her, but dammit, she took care of Lionel after our
mother died. I may not have chosen her, myself, but she remained
with us and gave up her own interests to do so.” He thought about
Helen. “She is a good woman. Decent. She has given us her
best.”

“Then we shall return the favor and give her our best.” Gaunt
turned back to eye him with a sympathetic look. “But I would
prepare myself, if I were you, to accept she may have decided she
has finally had enough.”

“Whatever the truth, I will weather it.” Hugh shut the door
behind the inquiry agent and leaned against it.

Despite his assertion, he was not quite as prepared to believe
his aunt tried to murder him as he claimed.

“ …
he makes himself otherwise useful in the steward’s room ….”
—
The Complete Servant

Two days after his conversation with Helen, Edward was still
trying to find an opportunity to sneak upstairs and search for her
necklace. Miss Leigh had stolen it, and he was going to get it
back.

Unfortunately, while everyone seemed happy to assign him an
excessive number of jobs, not one of the tasks provided an excuse
to go to the second floor. He even offered to help the maids with
their dusting. They laughed, ruffled his hair, and sent him to see
the cook.

Cook had an endless supply of potatoes she needed to be peeled.
Edward was heartily sick of the business. His hands were chapped
and raw with permanent brown stains on the knuckles from the gritty
dirt, not to mention the cut where he had almost removed his thumb
instead of a potato eye. He did not think he ever wanted to see
another vegetable as long as he lived.

He detested them.

After finishing another huge mound, Edward escaped the house. He
had no destination in mind and initially sprinted towards the
stables. Perhaps he could hide there and play with the
black-and-white cat which haunted the place. As he approached the
wide double door, he caught sight of the head groom.

“This will never do,” he thought. If the groom caught him, he
would be given another unpleasant task, such as mucking out the
stables.

The servants at Ormsby were a shiftless lot. They always seemed
to have dozens of nasty jobs they deliberately left undone in order
to thrust them upon him the first chance they got.

Angling away, he went around the front of the house to avoid the
sharp eyes of the groom who had taken up a position leaning against
the stable door, chewing on an apple. As Edward approached the
curved driveway, a carriage pulled up to the door.

Edward paused. Who was visiting now? Now that the last of the
guests had finally departed this morning, the only person in the
house, other than the servants, was Miss Leigh. He could not
imagine who could possibly want to visit such a dried-up, crotchety
old woman.

A black skirt flapped out of the carriage door. A booted foot
stepped out. Next, he caught a glimpse of a black-gloved hand
holding the edges of a heavy, black-and-green plaid shawl.

He recognized that shawl and dodged behind the square shape of a
boxwood. Peering round the bush, he watched with horror as Aunt
Ester and Aunt Elvira descended with awful majesty from the
carriage. The two women looked like a pair of gray-haired witches,
dressed entirely in black except for their plaid travelling
shawls.

In a frightening exhibition of black magic, Aunt Ester's head
lifted. She appeared to sniff the air before looking around her.
Edward flopped to the ground, terrified that she had caught the
scent of young boy and knew he was there.

Sweating, he risked another peek. The two women stopped halfway
up the stairs. They glanced around again and then put their heads
together to whisper. Then Aunt Ester pointed in Edward's direction.
His heart pounded. He squirmed backwards on his belly. He should
have kept running. He would have been at sea by now if he had
followed through with his original plan instead of allowing Miss
Helen to drag him with her.

Another man ruined by a pretty face.

But he could not abandon Miss Helen. She needed him. What was he
going to do?

Getting to his knees, he crawled rapidly round the corner of the
house. When he got out of sight of the groom and the women
loitering at the front door, he got up and sprinted to the side
door. He dived through and headed down the short, dim passageway to
the workroom.

A hand gripped his shoulder. His panic exploded his last,
logical thought.

“Ow!” he yelled, twisting away. He raised his fists, only to
find Miss Helen's beautiful — but surprised — face staring at
him.

“Ned,” she said, holding out a hand. “What's wrong?”

“You startled me, that’s all.” He glanced past her. Thankfully,
she was alone.

She smiled and as always, it lit up her beautiful face. He
stared at her, suddenly shy and tongue-tied.

“Cook sent me —”

“Not more potatoes! Please!”

Her laughter bubbled up. To his pleased surprise and
embarrassment, she gave him a quick hug and smoothed back the
wayward lock hanging over his forehead.

“No, dear. No more potatoes. She sent me to tell you there is a
plate of scones and honey awaiting some young man who did a
yeoman's job on a bushel of vegetables.”

He let out a deep breath. Then he straightened his shoulders
before holding out his hand, proud of his wounds in the line of
duty. “I deserve it, too, I nearly cut my thumb off.”

“Are you all right?” She grabbed his hand and examined it with
satisfyingly appalled exclamations.

“It's not as bad as it looks,” he told her manfully. He
graciously allowed her to wipe it clean with her handkerchief
before he pulled his hand out of her soft palm. “Miss Helen, can I
ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What are those women doing here?” he blurted out.

When she stared at him, her large blue eyes wide with surprise,
he shuffled from one foot to the other and glanced away.

“What women?”

“Them as just arrived. I saw them at the front door.”

“The ladies who just arrived,” she corrected him in an
absent-minded way. Her face cleared and she smiled. “Oh, those
ladies! They are Miss Leigh's sisters.” Her expression grew
serious. “Miss Leigh is ill, very ill. I'm just glad they are here
to comfort her after the terrible news about her nephew.”

“If she died, you'd get your necklace back, wouldn't you?”
Edward asked philosophically. “And I can’t imagine those scarecrows
would comfort anyone. She'll probably take one look at Aunt Esther
and die on the spot.”

“What did you say?” Helen asked in a sharp voice.

He stepped back and eyed her warily. “Huh?”

“You said, ‘Aunt Esther’.”

“Did I?” He glanced over her shoulder with his best blank
expression. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he could see her
staring at him, her brows crinkled.

“You did! What did you mean by that?”

“I didn't! And if I did, I just misspoke. I call all older women
'aunt'. It's polite.”

“You don’t call me 'aunt'.”

“You're not that old.”

Miss Helen covered her mouth with her hand, but he could tell
she was laughing. Her eyes crinkled and shone with mirth, and her
voice bubbled when she said, “You said, 'Aunt Esther'. How did you
know her name? Are you related to her?”

“I have no relationship with her whatsoever,” he stated with
perfect honesty. “Is that her name?”

“I have no notion. However, I would not be at all surprised.
Ned, what are you hiding? And tell me the truth, this time. I
promise you will not get into trouble.”

“You'll just tell
them
.”

She gripped his shoulders and searched his face. The serious,
sympathetic look in her eyes almost made him burst into tears and
throw himself into her arms. She would help him, he knew it.

“I will not tell, Ned. I will not do anything you don’t want me
to do. Just tell me the truth.”

Despite his resolution, he could not resist the entreaty of a
pretty woman. Many of his heroes suffered from the same weakness.
That chap Paris, for example. He had also fallen in love with a
Helen and look at all the trouble that caused at Troy.

He glanced around, his gaze finally dropping to his shoes. They
were covered with grit and dirt, and a blade of grass was caught
between his sole and toe. Using his left foot, he scraped at the
grass until he dislodged it. If he did not answer, maybe she would
forget.

“Ned?” she prompted.

“I might have said that.” He stared over her shoulder, doing his
best to appear unconcerned. After all, it was not as if he were
lying.

“You did say that.”

He eyed her with disfavor. “Are you sure? Because I don't
remember saying 'Aunt Esther'.” He smacked his forehead with the
palm of his hand. “I know, you thought I said 'Aunt Esther' but
what I really said was 'they'll pester her' and make Miss Leigh
more ill than she is already. A bunch of old, frowning women would
make anyone sick — even die.”

“You did not.”

The uncertainty in her voice made him widen his eyes a bit more
in honest earnestness. He nodded his head. “I did. You just
misunderstood me. It happens a lot.”

“I'm sure it does,” she replied with a note in her voice that
shook his confidence in her gullibility. Her blue eyes twinkled,
despite the extravagant frown drawing down the corners of her
mouth. “When one is a talented storyteller, one must expect to be
misunderstood. Frequently.”

Some instinct warned him to remain silent. He nodded and tried
to look wise and mature beyond his years.

“However,” she continued, “I am not sure that you are exactly an
orphan without a family.”

“I
am
an orphan. My mother and father are dead. I swear
it.”

“Don’t fret. I believe that part of your story. I am just not
sure that you are entirely without a family. Perhaps you have an
aunt or two?”

“A lot of boys have aunts.”

“And I am sure your aunts are worried about you.”

“You're wrong,” he insisted. That was the truth. “There isn't a
soul alive who cares two pence about me.”

Miss Helen looped an arm round his shoulders and gave him a
tight hug. He pressed his face into her shoulder and breathed in
the scent of soap and sunshine. To his embarrassment, his eyes
stung with unshed tears. He twisted out of her grip and wiped his
face in the crook of his arm.

He had to be a man, he reminded himself. Sailors never
cried.

“We all care about you, Ned. Cook, Mr. Caswell and I all care.”
She gripped his shoulders and stared into his face.

The strong urge to cry choked him again. He fisted his hands at
his sides and kept his face still, barely breathing until the
feeling passed. Then he nodded and cleared his throat. “I just need
to get back to London so I can pay my respects to Admiral Nelson’s
grave and board my ship.”