The Vital Principle (10 page)

It is to be believed because it is absurd
. —Quintus Septimius Tertulian, c. A.D. 155-225

Clutching the embroidery basket and periodical, Pru left the drawing room hurriedly. When she stopped to close the door, she caught Mr. Gaunt staring after her, his dark eyes unfathomable.

That was utterly brilliant
. She had made one mistake after another, and all because she wanted to talk to Mr. Gaunt instead of leaving immediately and returning later to search after Mr. Gaunt had vacated the room.

Not that it mattered now.

How he managed to discover the bell was beyond her. She sighed with disbelief at her foolishness.

First, she’d admitted she was a charlatan who used a spirit bell, thereby confirming Mr. Gaunt’s worst thoughts about her. Then, although she managed to convince him she might be innocent, she’d immediately created fresh doubts by explaining how easy it would have been to place poison in Lord Crowley's snifter earlier in the evening.

She must have been quite mad to point out the seals on the glasses to him.

Just because he
looked
like a member of the Inquisition didn’t mean she had to turn to wobbly jelly and babble witlessly in his presence. She berated herself as she hurried up the stairs and along the corridor. If matters continued along their present course, she wouldn’t have enough time to put her affairs in order before they arrested her.

No matter what happened to her, she had to set aside something for her maid, Millie. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be much. Only a small portion remained of the sum left by her father, and those remnants were safely deposited in the funds. The interest allowed her to clothe herself and her abigail, with very little left over for other luxuries.

Just as her father before her, Pru and her maid relied on their hosts and hostesses for room and board. The only difference being that while Mr. Barnard was regarded as a slightly eccentric scholar performing research into the spiritual realm, she was seen as a mildly entertaining charlatan-cum-professional houseguest. The difference troubled Pru, but there was little she could do about it. It allowed her to survive.

Pressing her lips together into a taut line, she resolved to speak to a lawyer at the earliest opportunity and make a will. Millie would get whatever remained after the costs of the trial. Pru could only hope it would be enough to support her maid’s retirement. There was nothing more she could do.

As she neared Lady Crowley’s room, she paused at the sound of low, choking sobs. She tensed, fearing Lady Crowley was prostrate with grief and unsure if she’d be angry if Pru intruded. With her hand on the porcelain doorknob, Pru stopped to listen. The noises grew less violent as she pressed her ear against the door.

Then she realized the heart-wrenching sounds weren’t coming from Lady Crowley’s apartment. Thinking it was Lord Crowley’s fiancée, Pru moved further down the hall toward Miss Spencer’s room. Again, the sobbing grew fainter as she approached that door. The woman crying was not the little mouse, Miss Spencer, either.

Who is it?

Pru retraced her steps until she was opposite her own room. Her heart sunk heavily. The crying was coming from her chamber.
Millie
! Millie must be in a panic over Pru’s impending arrest. Flustered, Pru thrust the door open, prepared for the worst. She was still trying to compose her thoughts when she realized it was not Millie who sat, collapsed, on the floor.

One of the maids huddled against the side of the bed, weeping onto the edge of the coverlet.

“May!” Pru said, startled. “What’s wrong?”

The young woman glanced up at her. A deep, wracking sob pushed out of her chest before she pressed her face once more against the bed.

She hurried over and bent down, awkwardly patting the maid’s shoulder.

May shook off her hand and gripped the coverlet in another burst of noisy weeping. “You've a-murdered him!” she exclaimed, the words broken and harsh.

“May, I didn’t!” Pru stared at her, horrified.

Another calamity rose to mind, as Pru struggled to make sense of May's distraught crying. Had Mr. Hereford decided to release the maid, simply because she’d been in the room when Lord Crowley died? Surely the dowager wouldn’t allow it. She’d continue to manage the house, despite Mr. Herford's pending ownership, wouldn’t she? Pru couldn’t imagine the dowager allowing the maid to be fired so quickly. Rosecrest needed experienced servants. Most of the staff would stay on as if nothing had happened.

Wouldn’t they?

Damp face mottled and suffused with red, May glared at Pru. “You did it—every soul here knows it! They was gamacking about it below—that you murdered him on account of his going to expose your wicked ways.” Clamping a rough hand on the edge of the bed, she pulled herself up. Her cap was askew, her apron dirty, and her blond curls flopped raggedly around her plump face, but even so, Pru was surprised at the girl's prettiness. Her lovely face looked almost incongruous against her tired, wrinkled clothing.

“On my honor, May, I didn’t kill Lord Crowley. Truly. I wish he hadn’t tried to discredit me, but I didn’t kill him.”

“But you was that angry with him, wasn't you? That angry that you went and killed my poor husband. And all on account of him refusing your lewd attentions!”

“Your husband!” Pru blurted out, shocked. “His attentions? What on earth do you mean?”

“Does you thinks he wouldn’t let on to me what you was getting up to? I saw your hands on his chest in the hallway, just outside your door—you—you light-skirt!”

“May! I never!” Unfortunately, Pru remembered the incident only too well. It was just three nights ago, before Lord Crowley had sent word to Mr. Gaunt.

But May had misinterpreted what she saw. Pru hadn’t been trying to seduce her host, far from it. She disliked Lord Crowley’s smug arrogance and his overweening assurance that all the women in his house would do his bidding. When Pru had refused to leave before fulfilling her promise to the dowager to communicate with her dearly departed husband, Lord Crowley tried another course of action. He had apparently hoped to defame Pru by seducing her, knowing his mother would demand Pru’s expulsion from the house after such scandalous behavior.

But whatever his intentions, he hadn’t seduced her, nor had she left Rosecrest. And he’d been forced to pursue another course by hiring Mr. Gaunt.

However, none of this explained May’s hysterical declaration. How could Lord Crowley have been her husband? He was engaged to Miss Spencer. He could hardly be married, much less to a maid.

As the dowager had confided to Pru, the previous Lord Crowley had arranged the engagement between their son and Miss Spencer. The death of the dowager's husband and the son’s inheritance of the title only made Lady Crowley more adamant about the marriage. Her husband had decreed it. The new Lord Crowley was to marry Miss Spencer in the spring of 1819, half a year from now.

Sadly, the promise was destined to remain unfulfilled.

She studied May’s angry face and swollen eyes. “I’m sorry, May, but I never tried to seduce Lord Crowley. What you saw was an argument. He tried to, em,
convince
me to leave.”

“Then you ought to have gone instead of a-murdering him.”

“I didn’t murder him. Surely, you remember. You spilled the wine. Then we mopped it up, together, before I helped the dowager rearrange her turban. I never went near Lord Crowley. You simply
must
remember.”

May wiped her streaming eyes with the corner of her apron. “I don’t know, mesure. It's all a muddle, isn't it?” She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, still trying to dry her face.

Pru sat next to her and lightly touched her arm. “May, what did you mean when you said, ‘my husband’?”

“We was married, wasn't we?” she stated firmly before she hiccupped. She put a hand over her plump mouth and coughed.

“Married? You don’t mean you and Lord Crowley?”

“That I do! He didn’t fancy being engaged to that mouse, did he? And he were already a-seeing me despite his father and his arrangements. But I told Lord Crowley I weren't that kind 'though he weren't much for listening. Then I went and got—” She stopped abruptly, twisting her hands in her lap.

“When you got…what, May?”

“Never you mind.”

She studied the girl briefly. May was indeed a beauty with creamy skin, soft blue eyes, and a round, dimpled face. She was the kind of girl who often caught the attention of the master of the house before hard, grinding work took away her fresh, unlined complexion and her youth. And those women almost always came to a sad end.

She noticed her thickened waistline and felt a surge of dismay. “Are you …with child, May?”

“What if I am?” The maid fumbled at her neckline and drew out a slender gold chain. A plain gold ring dangled from it, heartbreaking in its simplicity. “He made it legal-like. I insisted, so it don't argify much what you think, or anyone else, nuther. He said he’d break it off with that Miss Spencer, as soon as he could. He didn’t want to cause no scandal so it were our secret 'til he found the right time.”

What a dreadful secret!
Pru was stunned. She couldn’t understand how Lord Crowley expected this preposterous course of events to play out. He’d married the upstairs maid in secret and forced her to continue working in his household as if nothing had changed.

The entire story was preposterous.

“Do you have your marriage lines?” Pru asked, trying to sound helpful instead of disbelieving.

“Yes, I does. It were all legal-like, never you fear. None of that havey-cavey nonsense, no-hows, no-ways. We was married by the vicar with two witnesses, all legal and proper.”

“When did you get married?”

“Just two weeks ago. After I discovered, well, you know. I've proof, too.”

So they’d gotten married before Pru arrived. Not that it mattered, but it appeared marriage had little impact on Lord Crowley's behavior toward women. He had been married to May and expecting their first child when he tried to foist his attentions upon Pru. And his betrothed, Miss Spencer, had been just down the hallway. “I believe you, May. But, if you were his wife, why did you—”

“Continue a-working in me own home?” She sniffed and straightened, raising her chin defiantly. “We was trying to find a way to tell the old dowager without it a-killing her. It were hard enough after his old lordship passed. My dear Lord Crowley wanted to protect her from shocks, he said. Break it gradual-like.” She patted her stomach. “And we had a few months, yet. Plenty o' time to get shut of that mousey Miss Spencer. Then, we was to take the dowager on a tour of Europe, and when we returned, I’d be Lady Crowley. And I'd be dressed as fine as you please with all them new Parisian fashions.”

The scheme might make sense to someone as naive as May, but Pru wasn’t convinced. Many things could go wrong in childbirth. It was conceivable that Lord Crowley hoped May would deliver and conveniently perish, leaving him as a romantic widower with an heir. He could then return to England without a low-born wife in tow and continue with his proposed marriage to Miss Spencer.

And Pru had seen enough of the dowager to know if she ever discovered her son had fathered a child, she’d have insisted he provide for the care of the poor creature. The dowager believed in responsibility.

She patted May’s arm, ignoring the maid's abrupt withdrawal of her hand. “We should let the dowager know, May. It isn’t fair to her to leave her in ignorance now that Lord Crowley is gone. She’ll want to know there’s the possibility of a child. She may be a grandmother in a few months.”

“Well, I was just a-going to it, but I broke down and come in here, not knowing what else to do. I’ve worried myself sick all night over how to tell her without crushing her with grief.”

“I understand, but I'm convinced the sooner we do it, the better.” Pru paused before she made up her mind. “We should collect the marriage lines and speak to her privately in her room.
Now
. I’ll send for the doctor, as a precaution.”

“She’ll be right upset, I expect.”

“Yes, but in the end, I think she may be relieved. After all, there's the possibility of a child to carry on as heir. That should ease her grief.”

May’s bloodshot eyes flickered over her face. The maid’s complexion was haggard and splotched with tears, but her voice rose hopefully when she asked, “And you—you didn’t kill him, then?”

“No. I swear I didn’t poison your husband. Now, go and wash your face. Then we’ll let the dowager know there may yet be hope for a little Lord Crowley in a few months.”

As she watched May slip through the door, an ugly notion struck her.

Had May tripped deliberately? It had to be maddening to be treated like a servant when you were married to the master. Had May poisoned her husband because she resented his continued engagement to another woman?

The thought chilled her to the bone.

Men trust their ears less than their eyes
. —Herodotus, c. 485-425 B.C.

After finishing his examination of the drawing room, Knighton left with the objective to hide the brown bottle securely in his room. When he reached the second floor landing, he walked into the hallway in time to see Miss Barnard and one of the maids enter Lady Crowley’s room. The two women moved with tense, jerky movements that immediately aroused his curiosity. He moved quietly down the corridor after them, wondering uncharitably if Miss Barnard had requested the assistance of the maid in cleaning up something relevant to Lord Crowley's demise.

Or worse, had the dowager suffered an attack of some sort? Had she called the women to her room because she blamed Miss Barnard? Perhaps she had remembered seeing who had dropped cyanide into her son’s brandy. If so, she might be in danger if she confronted Miss Barnard with only the maid present.

When he reached the dowager’s room, he found the door ajar. He paused in the hall, tensely listening to the soft voices and ready to step in if the dowager needed his assistance. It was an uncomfortable position. He didn’t want to be found eavesdropping, but he was disinclined to interrupt.

Suddenly, the sound of a high-pitched exclamation caught his attention.

“Married?” The dowager's voice shook. “My Henry and this—this
creature
? You can’t expect me to believe such nonsense. Miss Barnard, I expect better of you and at a time like this!”

“I’m sorry, Lady Crowley, but here are the documents.”

Knighton stepped over the threshold. None of the women noticed him. They were too engrossed in their own conversation to recognize his presence.

Lady Crowley sat propped up in bed, wrapped in a paisley Cashmere shawl. She gripped a sheaf of papers in her shaking hands. They rattled dryly as she tried to hold them still. Miss Barnard perched on the edge of the bed with her back to him. She leaned forward and placed a hand over Lady Crowley’s fingers as if trying to support her and ease the trembling.

The maid stood next to the bed with her mouth partially open, staring witlessly at Lady Crowley. Knighton recognized her as the one who had spilled the Madeira the previous evening. Her face was flushed and eyes swollen as if she had been crying. Her hands gripped her stained, badly worn apron and twisted the thin material between her fingers.

While he watched, the maid pulled a chain out of her bodice and dangled it in front of her chin. “I’ve me ring, Lady Crowley. We was a-planning on telling you.” When she saw the look of horror intensify on the dowager's face, she hurried on. “Never you mind that, now. It's all legal-like, so don't you worry.”

“Me…ring?” the dowager repeated slowly, anguish clearly evident on her face. She shivered and her expression trembled as a jumble of conflicting emotions crumpled her features. She whispered, “My God, listen to her.
Me
ring—and she’s Lady Crowley, now. What are we
to do
?”

Miss Barnard eased the papers out of the dowager’s stiff fingers and placed them on the lady's lap before clasping one gnarled hand between her palms. “I’m dreadfully, sorry, Lady Crowley, however there is something else you
must
know. May, that is, Lord Crowley’s wife, is carrying his child.”

“
What
?”

Miss Barnard nodded toward the maid. “When you've had time to adjust to it, I'm sure you'll be pleased.”

Lady Crowley gave a strangled sound deep in her throat.

“May,” Miss Barnard said urgently. “Please, send someone for the doctor—now! Lady Crowley has had far too many shocks. The strain—”

“You can’t send that child!” Lady Crowley said, clearly agitated. A hysterical laugh edged past her pale, blue-tinged lips. “You can’t send my son’s wife after the doctor. Whatever are you thinking?” She glanced at May and moaned, her skin growing even more pallid. “Look how she’s dressed—and talks! We’ve been ordering her about—Good Lord—what will everyone think? We’re ruined! And think of poor Miss Spencer, and the servants…. We must get rid of all our servants—they knew her—know her….” She rambled on, her fingers plucking alternately at the black fringe of her shawl and the papers scattered across her knees.

In shock, Knighton watched the ladies. Lord Crowley had married his
maid
? That action alone kicked open a hornet's nest of raging emotions and motives ideally designed for murder.

Had Miss Spencer known her betrothed was already married? Even if she didn’t love Lord Crowley, she’d be angry and horrified to find she’d been cast aside for a mere servant.

Worse, since Miss Spencer and Lord Crowley had been engaged, there was the question of how intimate their arrangement had grown. Many engaged couples acted as if they were already married. It was possible that the maid might not be the only one carrying a baby.

Ironic that the maid’s offspring would be the legitimate one, should it survive.

And in light of this revelation, Pru’s possible motives seemed almost laughable. Fear of exposure had not been the only strong emotion swirling through the room last night. Jealousy was a far better reason for the murder. Miss Spencer could have known about the maid and killed her betrothed. Even more intriguing, May could have killed her own husband because he refused to acknowledge their clandestine marriage. And adding to that insult, he obviously still expected her to carry on her household chores until he chose to announce the happy event.

The petty tyrant had certainly enjoyed berating her in front of the guests after she spilled the wine.

Explanations for the murder multiplied like rats in the dark. More than ever, he wanted to search Lord Crowley’s room for a key to the gentleman’s complex situation. Had he kept a journal? Had he written
anything
to explain his incomprehensible behavior in marrying his maid?

“Mr. Gaunt!” Lady Crowley exclaimed, suddenly noticing him.

Miss Barnard leapt to her feet. She spun around, her cheeks blazing. His glance swept over her tense figure before he focused on the dowager.

He nodded. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but your door was open.” He walked further into the room and stopped five feet away from the bed. “I hoped to speak to you, Lady Crowley. If this is inconvenient, I can return at a later time.”

“I think I should send for the doctor.” Miss Barnard stepped past him.

He touched her arm, gesturing for her to stay. “I apologize for interrupting, but I couldn’t help overhearing—”

“Oh, dear,” Lady Crowley cut him off. “What are we to do?”

“If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion?”

“Please!”

“It’s obviously impossible for, er, the new Lady Crowley, to remain here as a maid. However, there’s a simple solution. I noticed when I arrived that Rosecrest’s Dower House was being refitted, perhaps for your use after Lord Crowley married?” He paused, trying to frame his somewhat delicate suggestion. He was not a subtle man. Sarcasm was his forte, not kind words. “Wouldn’t it be a simple matter to move the new Lady Crowley to Dower House? Then you could hire an educated female, perhaps one of your relations, Dowager, to assist in refining her, er, speech? With a new wardrobe and some tutelage, she could become quite respectable as your daughter-in-law.”

Miss Barnard nodded. “Perhaps the two of you, with a suitable companion, might even venture to Europe for a few months?”

“No,” he interrupted. “I’m afraid I can’t agree to a trip until matters here are resolved.”

“I beg your pardon,” the dowager replied, her voice cold.

“I’m sorry, but…I might as well tell you. The reason I came here this morning was to request permission to go through your son’s effects. I'm hoping to discover a reason for his…accident. Until we can determine what happened, I’m afraid all the occupants of Rosecrest must remain here.”

“This is absurd!” the dowager protested, her hands resuming their nervous plucking of her shawl’s fringe. “How dare you demand such things?”

“It is awkward—”

“That is an understatement.” The dowager studied him. For a moment, her haggard face went slack as other memories distracted her. “Mr. Gaunt—aren't you related to Lord Graystone?”

“Yes,” Knighton admitted reluctantly, knowing his brother wouldn’t be pleased to admit to having an inquiry agent in the family. “He’s my older brother.”

“I see. Then perhaps it is best you are here. You understand my position. You can help me—”

“Yes, I do understand,” he replied gently. “But surely you want to know what happened to your son?”

The dowager sighed. “I suppose if you think it for the best. I’m not entirely sure….” She raised her red-rimmed eyes to search his face. “If you discover something scandalous—well, more scandalous—you won't…?”

“No. I won't spread rumors. And it is for the best. The truth is important. And your son deserves justice. We all do.” He couldn’t help flicking a glance at Miss Barnard. She returned his stare with an expressionless face. “Do I have your permission to search?”

“Yes. Better you than a constable from the village.” She waved him away. “Now, all of you—leave. I must—I want to rest now.”

“I’ll make arrangements to move May, that is, Lady Crowley, to Dower House with your permission,” Miss Barnard said.

The dowager nodded. “Send for my cousin, Lydia. She’s widowed and has only a very small income. I’m sure she’d be willing to act as a companion.” She eyed her daughter-in-law dubiously. “And there may be some dresses in the attic—I really have no idea.” Leaning back, she closed her eyes, clearly unwilling to think about the situation any further.

May dropped a curtsey. “That’d be right lovely, your ladyship. I'll have at that job first thing.” She then blushed and put a hand over her mouth. She glanced at Miss Barnard with an uncertain look that showed she was not as unaware of the difficulties of her position as she seemed.

With a deeply gracious gesture, Miss Barnard linked her arm through the maid’s and nodded to their hostess. When she passed Knighton, she flicked a glance in his direction. A faint flush tinged her cheeks when she caught him staring at her and she looked away quickly as if embarrassed.

Waiting for the ladies to leave, Knighton approached the bed. “If you don’t mind, Dowager, may I keep your son’s marriage papers for you? Just temporarily. I’d hate to see anything happen to them, particularly if you’re blessed with a grandson.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes filling with tears. “A grandson…. Then it needn’t all end, after all? Although I could have wished—” She eyed the door. “That poor girl, what a dreadful muddle he's left behind. Well, he was ever willful, even as a child.”

The misery in her face showed she understood the situation even if May did not. May would soon discover she was neither fish nor fowl. She was no longer a servant and her previous friends of that class would no longer speak to her as one of them when they found out she was a lady. And the social class she had married into would snub her. She wasn’t one of them and despite any tutelage, she never would be.

However, if she bore a child….

“It
is
a sign of hope, though, isn’t it?” Knighton took the papers and smiled at her. “A child can carry on the family’s name.”

“If we are not all murdered, first.” The dowager dabbed at her eyes. “Pray to God nothing happens to the baby. I don't think my heart can stand any more pain.” She glanced up at him and frowned. “And if I might ask, did my son bring you here as Lord Graystone's brother or an inquiry agent? I did hear that, didn't I? That you...inquire?”

“Yes—”

“I hadn’t thought anyone related to a baron would—well, never mind. I suppose it doesn't matter.” Her voice was heavy with distaste. “And you’ll want to be paid, won't you?”

His relationship to a baron had not made her forget he was unsuitable to claim status as a guest. “I'll eventually need to be paid. But not yet,” he replied evenly. “And I’ll strive to ensure your privacy as much as possible.”

“Then I must trust your word. We’ve enough difficulties—I can't bear much more.”

“No. You needn’t worry. I won’t discuss this situation outside of this room. And if you’ll allow me, I'll be content to remain until matters are resolved.”

The dowager leaned tiredly against the stack of pillows. She closed her eyes and as the silent minutes ticked by, Knighton hesitated, wondering if she had forgotten his presence and fallen asleep.

“You may search my son’s suite and his desk in the library. He did not keep a journal that I’m aware of. However you may find something to explain his inexplicable behavior. I can’t understand how he expected us to accept that girl. It is beyond my comprehension. But you may stay at Rosecrest.”

“Perhaps he loved her.”

“Love?” The dowager shook her head. “I can’t believe it was love. She’s pretty enough, but love? No. That requires something more than a pretty face. It needs common backgrounds and respect. He’d have found love with his betrothed. He knew that, or he’d never have agreed to an engagement. No, I can’t believe it was love. That girl tricked him into it. I’m sure of it, though I am thankful now for there may yet be an heir to the title.” Her blue gaze fixed on his face. “Do you think…could he have known this would happen? That this was his only chance for a rightful heir?”