The Vital Principle (22 page)

“I hoped—well, have you heard anything? The inquest—” Her eyes flickered over his bare shoulders and chest before focusing on the pale, gray dummy behind him.

“Not yet. They've come to view Lord Crowley. I understand they are questioning the servants today.” It wasn't necessary to mention the awkwardness surrounding the issue of questioning members of the nobility. He knew the magistrate's ill temper was due less to Knighton's failure to immediately identify the murderer than to the man's uneasiness about handling the grief-stricken dowager, Lord Thompson, and Mr. Hereford.

If Knighton could discover the responsible party, it would be much easier for everyone.

“May? Have they spoken to her, yet?” The anxiety in her face increased.

“No. Why?”

She twisted her hands. “I just—it'll be so awkward. If they recognize her as a maid and it comes out she was Lord Crowley's wife—I just.... I can't imagine it. I'm sorry, I just—it's such a terrible situation and not only for the dowager, but for both of them.” She pressed her hand to her mouth to smother a nervous giggle. “Both dowagers—I'm so sorry. That was a dreadful thing for me to say. I seem to be spending my days apologizing to everyone, but I hate to be the one pointing out these absolutely appalling circumstances.”

“I understand. And believe me, you aren't the only one worrying about it. The magistrate is just as unhappy as you are, and he doesn't know the half of it, yet.”

“Does he know about May?”

“No.”

“What are we going to do? We can't make her—and the dowager—the laughing-stocks of the village. It's unthinkable!”

“Miss Spencer isn't going to be pleased about it, either,” he replied drily.

Her hand pressed against one flushed cheek. “Oh, my—I had completely forgotten poor Miss Spencer. I wish you hadn't reminded me, it makes me ill to think of it.”

“Well, it does rather take the attention away from you.”

The color seeped from her face, leaving it pale with anger. Her eyes hardened. “That was uncalled for and was
not
my concern! I just—”

“You were imagining what the dowager was suffering?” he offered, feeling cruel. But he was irritated by Miss Barnard's sensibilities. He knew the women at Rosecrest would suffer, and he didn't particularly want to hear it spelled out so poignantly, as if he didn’t understand the ramifications. He knew. And it made it difficult to keep a clear head and prevent his sympathies from coloring his judgment, or interfering with his inquiries.

“Yes. It doesn't take any particular skill, or intelligence, to comprehend the difficulties—”

“I agree. Suffice it to say, then, that I will try to dissuade them from calling on the young dowager too soon in the proceedings.”

“Too soon—do you have hope of identifying the responsible person?”

“I have hopes,” he agreed, keeping his tone casual.

“Who?”

“It would be unwise of me to reveal that—”

“You have no notion, do you?”

“I have a great many notions.” His eyes locked on her face before his gaze moved lazily to her mouth. Again, he was aware of her attractiveness. He remembered the silver flash in her eyes when she had seen him, his shirt in his hands. The taut thread of attraction pulled more tightly.

“Everyone has notions and theories.” Her voice sounded hushed and breathless. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He could see it in her eyes. “I wish you luck with yours—”

He cut her off gently. Her hand rose to his shoulder and it was an easy matter to draw her against him and brush his lips over her mouth. For one moment, she yielded, warm and pliant under his touch, but when he moved to deepen their embrace, she withdrew.

“I’m sorry!” Her flustered gaze danced around the room, refusing to meet his. “I’ve given you the wrong impression—oh, excuse me!”

She turned before he could speak and fled from the room.

As he watched her go, he wondered if she’d taken his wits with her. It certainly seemed that way.

Words like snowflakes
…. —Homer, c. 700 B.C.

Embarrassed by her inexcusable conduct, Pru escaped from the training room. Sadly, she couldn’t escape from her emotions, too. He was bound to think she’d tried to seduce him to gain his support. The sordid and unhealthy situation in the house, combined with her uncertainty over her own future, was making her lose her self-control.

To make matters worse, she had almost begged Mr. Gaunt to offer her a job, before he kissed her. So that had been a favor on his part, although he’d be shocked to know it.

Nonetheless, she remained desperate to find an avenue of escape. Once she left Rosecrest, she had nowhere to go. The last few days brought her the realization that she was unlikely to receive any further invitations from the
bon ton
.

The life she’d known since a child was disappearing like a distant ship over the horizon. How could she support herself and Millie if she had to pay rent? How would they survive?

The memory of Mr. Gaunt's blithe comments about the value of truth made her irritation boil over into frustrated anger.

If she had been truthful these past few years and told her hosts and hostesses that their loved ones lay silently in their graves, she’d have been reduced to poverty long ago. Truth would certainly bring freedom. She'd be free to support an aging, dependent maid in poverty, with no hope of affording even the meanest cottage.

It would have been quite lovely to tell him the
truth
about that fact. She longed to unburden her soul and throw off all vestiges of useless politeness.

Oh, why did I kiss him?

She rubbed her face and pushed back the damp hair from her forehead, wishing he would stay out of her mind. Now, the image of his wide, bare shoulders flustered her further. He ought to fit his name, as thin and sharp-boned as a skeleton. But instead, he was...attractive. And he had the nerve to tower above everyone else in the house, including the two matching, six-foot tall footmen the Crowleys were so proud of employing.

It was excessively annoying of him.

When she obtained the security of her room, she took a seat by the fireplace. She stared at the ashes of Lord Crowley’s letters, mingled with the remnants of other, older fires and felt her frustration crackle inside her. She closed her eyes and leaned back wearily. What had she accomplished today?

Nothing useful.

She’d only confirmed that May had been very resourceful in her efforts to better herself. However, that didn’t help Pru. None of it pointed a shaking, skeletal finger at Lord Crowley’s killer, unless….

Unless May knew Lord Crowley intended to divorce her. That would not suit her at all. She’d been ruthless enough to blackmail him into marrying her. But would she kill to keep her position?

There was no proof of anything, although blackmail and murder were brother and sister in crime.

And despite the flicker of interest in Mr. Gaunt's dark eyes and his unexpected kiss, she couldn’t fool herself into believing he no longer suspected her of murder. He despised her for living as she did. And he enjoyed trifling with her, undoubtedly hoping to knock her off balance in order to obtain her confession.

Staring at the ashes, her heart throbbed against her ribs. She’d found evidence of blackmail and destroyed it. Would that action come back to haunt her?

She didn't know. However, she couldn’t see what good would come of keeping the letters and they would only hurt the dowager if they were found. So for now, she had to concentrate on locating evidence to support her innocence.

When afternoon finally slid into evening, Pru declined to go down to dinner. She had a tray sent to her room where she was free to think without interruption. Unfortunately, all she could think about was Mr. Gaunt. Somewhere within Rosecrest, he waited for her confession, dressed in his black coat and looking as sardonic and unsympathetic as an executioner facing a distasteful client.

Why can’t he simply trust me?
She remembered his kiss and shook her head.

The night held no answers, only restless shadows.

The number of those who undergo the fatigue of judging for themselves is very small indeed.
—Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
1751-1816

Tuesday, Oct 13

By morning, Pru's outlook had not improved. After due consideration, she reluctantly decided to pursue arrangements to join some other house party, hoping to leave before she did something else foolish.

Like throwing herself on Mr. Gaunt’s mercy. Because she was fairly sure he had none, despite their kiss.

For now though, she had to concentrate on proving her innocence and preparing to leave. Of the two, proving her innocence seemed easiest. If she could just find the madman who had administered the poison….

Whoever it was had used Prussic acid. Had they brought the poison with them or acquired it here? It seemed too cruelly cold-blooded to bring it on the off-chance one would like to murder someone.

Perhaps a trip to the apothecary’s shop was necessary. She threw off the covers and climbed out of bed, aware of tightness under her scalp that promised a headache later. While she investigated the Prussic acid, perhaps she could also buy something to ease the pain burrowing behind her eyebrows.

“Good morning, Miss Pru. You're looking like a fair breeze would blow you over.” Millie helped Pru ease her slip over her head. “This place is none too healthy, is it?

“No. I wish we could leave, but it’s impossible. I will go for a walk, though.”

Millie shook out a French corset and held it up. “This ought to do under your walking gown, then.” She slipped it around Pru and continued to grumble as she tightened the strings with an extra tug. “Well, we ought to be packing to leave.”

“I’m afraid we can’t until the inquest is over.”

“It’s no good clinging to a place where you're not wanted.” Millie resolutely refused to accept that the inquest had anything to do with her or Pru.

“Indeed.”

“So when you want to leave this accursed place, you ring for me. We'll be packed in a trice.”

“I certainly will.” Pru stood quietly while Millie helped her into her dark walking gown and a pair of stout half boots.

Unfortunately, Pru’s initial foray only went as far as the first floor landing.

“Miss Barnard,” the dowager called. Pru paused at the door to the sitting room. “Won’t you join me?”

“I was just going to walk to the village. May I fetch anything for you?”

“No. I can always send a footman this afternoon.”

“But I—”

“There’s no need to trouble yourself. Come, keep me company for a few minutes. Mr. Hereford has been called to the inquest.” She twisted her heavy rings around her knobbed fingers. “And then the others—I don't know who will be next. I—I can't face it. Not yet.”

“It’ll soon be over, Lady Crowley. We must be patient.” Pru cast a longing glance at the staircase leading down to the main hall, then followed the dowager into the sitting room. She folded her shawl, draped it over the chair arm and took a seat.

“What are you working on, Lady Crowley?”

The dowager had her sewing box open and was pulling out a section of delicate white fabric. She looked up briefly, a tight smile on her face. “A christening gown and cap for the child.” She sighed and untangled a skein of white silk. “I can’t expect that creature to think of such things.”

“I’m sure—”

“Or have the least notion of the needle arts,” she continued relentlessly.

“Perhaps Miss Brumbly is helping her?”

“That ninny? Although my cousin is a fine needlewoman, I can’t see our May begging for sewing lessons. Can you?”

Pru stared at the white thread and needle flashing in the dowager’s bent fingers. The dowager was right. Pru couldn’t picture May sitting down in comfort to an afternoon’s sewing with her mother-in-law. Nonetheless, it seemed heartless to agree with the astringent comment.

While she struggled to find something kinder to say, she was surprised by the arrival of Mr. Jekyll. He strolled into the room, not even glancing in her direction. For once, he wasn’t accompanied by his wife and daughter.

He sketched a bow to his hostess. “Lady Crowley, how well you look despite your tragedy.”

Pru gave him a sharp glance, wishing he hadn’t mentioned Lord Crowley’s death when the dowager was trying so desperately to be strong.

Lady Crowley’s face trembled. The loose skin draping her jaw twitched before she straightened. “We must carry on, mustn’t we?”

“Of course. May I?” He indicated the chair next to her.

Her mouth tightened fractionally. Pru wondered if she’d say no, but she finally acquiesced with a brief nod.

“Mrs. Jekyll and my daughter have been nearly prostrate with worry and grief. This is such a difficult time,” he said, settling into the chair.

“Indeed.”

“Forgive me if this is premature, but have you considered, perchance, our offer?”

“Offer?”

“Surely Lord Crowley….” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his palms. “Forgive me. The room is very warm for October, isn’t it?”

“Miss Barnard,” the dowager said. “You may open a window.”

“Oh, no. Drafts….” Mr. Jekyll protested. “Drafts. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you when you’re already laid so low.”

“However,” the dowager said. “It
is
stuffy in here. Miss Barnard, if you would kindly open the window?”

Jekyll stood abruptly. “No, no. No need to bother Miss Barnard. Allow me.” He rushed to the windows and raised one a few inches. “Will you be disturbed by the draft?”

“There is no wind. Pray be seated,” the dowager replied. From her sharp tone, she sounded as if she’d have preferred to tell him to jump out of the window he just opened.

Pru couldn't blame her. He seemed simultaneously obsequious and yet smug, with a deep sense of his own superiority that his diffidence could not hide.

“Surely Lord Crowley mentioned our interest in expanding the home farm?” he asked.

“No. He did not.”

“I wrote him a letter. We discussed it several times. He indicated he was considering my offer.”

“Really? What precisely did he say?” The dowager's eyes remained fixed on her sewing.

“Lord Crowley was most kind. He had no objections and indicated he would make arrangements—”

“He may have done so. He never discussed business with me.”

“Perhaps he felt you wouldn’t be interested in such mundane matters. However, I’d like to discuss terms with your man of business. I realize this is not the best time….”

“No, it is not. However, my son’s lawyer will arrive this afternoon.” Her voice caught in her throat. She stopped to swallow. “To read the will.”

“Of course, I merely wanted to mention—”

“And you have. But I’m unprepared to discuss this, now.”

“Naturally. We can certainly wait until the lawyer arrives.” He nodded. “And may I say that as your nearest neighbor, my wife and I will always be ready to come to your assistance?”

“Come? Are you leaving?”

“We intend to depart this afternoon. After all, we live only a few miles away and can be here in a trice if you require assistance.”

“The inquest—” Pru started to say before a hard glance from Mr. Jekyll stopped her.

“We will, of course, attend the inquest. If necessary,” he said. “But I don't know what we can add. The others were closer—”

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Crowley asked, staring at him.

“I only meant that we saw nothing that could possibly help.”

“None of us did,” Pru murmured.

The dowager eyed him askance. “You won’t stay for the reading of the will?”

“I had not realized…. Well, if you need our support, we’ll be happy to delay our departure. You need only ask.”

Before the dowager could frame a reply, Mr. Gaunt strolled into the room.

Looking relieved, Mr. Jekyll used this opportunity to escape, indicating his desire to join his wife and daughter. Pru’s cheeks burned when Mr. Gaunt glanced in her direction. She stared down at her hands, wishing she had managed to escape with Mr. Jekyll.

While Mr. Gaunt and Lady Crowley exchanged pleasantries, Pru considered pulling him aside and telling him that May blackmailed Lord Crowley. Unfortunately, she had the notion that the information was interesting, but not particularly helpful. It might have been relevant if May had been the one to die. But she gained nothing by sending her new husband into the afterworld before he even acknowledged their marriage. Had he lived, his presence would have provided her with a measure of protection she’d sorely miss, now.

Without him, May’s only support would have to come from her mother-in-law who did not even wish to acknowledge her existence.

“The will is to be read at two,” the dowager said. “After that, I should hope it would meet with your approval if I allowed my guests to leave, Mr. Gaunt.”

He lifted his head and met Pru's gaze in an intimate moment of understanding. Her heart quickened in a flaring, unwanted response.

“I'm afraid it's not my decision. I don't believe the coroner, or the magistrate, will allow anyone to leave until the coroner's inquest is over.”

“That could be days if they insist on questioning everyone present! There were fourteen people in that room!”

“I'm sorry.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “We can only hope it will end soon.”

“And reveal what really happened,” Pru added. Somehow, it seemed kinder to imply it may have been an accident.

After all, none of them knew for sure. Only the physician and coroner could make that determination.

Mr. Gaunt stared at her for a moment before nodding. “Of course, though the inquest only serves to ascertain the manner of death and not to assign guilt.”

“Indeed,” the dowager said.

Pru shifted in her seat. Her corset pinched and felt tighter than ever, reminding her she still needed to make a trip to the village to find out if someone purchased poison. She couldn’t depend upon Mr. Gaunt exonerating her, or correctly interpreting any evidence he found.

Part of her softened. The situation was so like the research trips she enjoyed with her father. He would venture forth in pursuit of the spirit in the tower while she spent long, midnight hours bruising her knees on frigid stone floors, measuring cold spots, and tapping woodwork to find the mundane truth behind the fantasy. Men liked to talk. They believed in high ideals and the impossible. Women were left to carry on the business of life, and sadly, death.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must walk to the village,” Pru said, rising.

“I’ll accompany you.” Mr. Gaunt stepped closer to the door.

“It’s not necessary. I’m sure you have better things to do,” she said.

“No—I’d enjoy a walk.”

While Pru tried to find a way to discourage him, Miss Spencer and Mr. Denham strolled in, closely followed by Jekyll’s daughter, Mrs. Marley, and the Howard ladies. When they discovered Pru intended to walk to the village, the entire party declared it was just the thing. From the relief on their faces, Pru suspected they hoped to escape any summons to the inquest, at least for one more day.

Only the dowager declined to go.

Upon hearing this, Lady Howard said she would keep her company. However she did agree to allow her daughter, Fanny, to accompany them.

With a little delicate maneuvering, Pru managed to align herself with Mr. Denham and Miss Spencer, leaving Mr. Gaunt to escort Mrs. Marley and Miss Howard. Mrs. Marley was pale and sickly with a persistent, hacking cough, and she clung gratefully to his arm. However, she seemed relieved to be out of the gloomy manor, even if her condition made her stop and catch her breath twice on the way, forcing that small group to lag behind.

Several times, Mr. Gaunt strode forward and cut between Pru and the others. She remained ruthlessly polite to him and edged away. When Mrs. Marley started a conversation with Pru about some of the manor homes in which they had both been guests, Mr. Gaunt slowed and divided his attention between Miss Howard and Miss Spencer.

Pru was glad he left her in peace, although more often than not, when she happened to glance over her shoulder, she caught his black gaze fixed on her. The effect of his stare made her stumble until Mr. Denham gave his left arm to her. Then he jocularly matched the gesture by offering his right arm to Miss Spencer. Pru smiled at him gratefully. She could always depend upon George Denham. He was ever the stolid, trustworthy squire.

Upon their arrival in the village, the group broke into an argument about their destination. Finally, they agreed that to split up. Pru and Mrs. Marley wished to visit the apothecary while the other four explored a shop selling a variety of odds and ends that Miss Howard thought were fascinating. They would meet at the coffee shop in an hour for refreshments before returning to Rosecrest.

When Mrs. Marley and Pru entered the apothecary shop, Pru was drawn to the back counter where the shelves were laden with multi-colored glass bottles topped by crystal stoppers. They glowed with deep, rich reds, greens, ambers and blues. Cases of small wooden jars containing mysterious powders filled the lower shelves, and the air was redolent with odd, sharp odors. The rich scent of cloves and cinnamon faded abruptly when a brittle, metallic scent that made Pru’s teeth ache arose as the chemist measured out something for a waiting lady.