3-Book Victorian Crime Collection: Death at Dawn, Death of a Dancer, A Corpse in Shining Armour. Caro Peacock
to get him back upstairs before he wet his breeches.
That evening, Betty went to her room soon after the children were in bed. I stayed on my own in the schoolroom with the window open and a lamp on the table, preparing notes on the geography of India for next day’s lesson. I was dozing over the tributaries of the Ganges when the door opened quietly and somebody came into the room.
‘Is one of the children awake?’ I said, thinking it must be Betty.
‘I hope not,’ Celia said, coming over to the table.
She was in evening dress, peach-coloured muslin with darker stripes woven in silk, bodice trimmed with cream lace. Her face was pale in the candlelight, eyes scared.
‘You were seen, Elizabeth.’
She took hold of the back of a chair and pivoted from side to side on the ball of one satin-shod foot, in a kind of nervous dance step.
‘By whom?’
‘One of the laundry maids has a sweetheart who works at the livery stables.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘Am I supposed to know every servant’s sweetheart? I only heard about it from Fanny when she was doing my hair for dinner.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘The stable boy was sent up here on some message. He told his laundry maid a tale of a woman appearing out of nowhere and catching a horse that was bolting.’
‘She wasn’t … I mean, how did he know it was me?’
‘He didn’t. Only he described you and what you were wearing and the laundry maid said it sounded a bit like the new governess.’
‘They don’t know for certain, then?’
‘Not yet, no. I was shaking. Fanny must have felt it. Then I had to sit through dinner wondering if Sir Herbert had heard about it yet.’
‘Did he give any sign?’
‘No, but then he may just be waiting for his time to pounce.’
I put down my pencil and found my hand was shaking too.
‘What are we going to do?’ Celia said. ‘I must have the reply to my letter.’
‘Oh, there’s certain to be a reply, is there?’
I was nettled at her refusal to consider any problem but her own.
‘I’m sure Philip will reply by return of post. I told him to write care of the stables. It should be there by Friday or Saturday at the latest.’
‘Is a love letter so important that I must risk dismissal for it?’
She sat down heavily on Henrietta’s blue chair.
‘It’s more than that. I wish … oh, I must trust you. I’ve asked him something. I need his answer.’ She looked down at the map of India, picked up my pencil and turned it over and over in her fingers. ‘I’ve asked him to elope with me.’
‘Doesn’t the suggestion usually come from the gentleman?’
‘I’m certain Philip would suggest it if he knew. But he can’t know until he reads my letter. You see, somebody’s coming soon and I want Philip to take me away and marry me before he arrives.’
‘This other person, is he the one your stepfather wants you to marry?’
She nodded.
‘When is he arriving?’
‘I don’t know. He’s expected any day.’
‘But your stepfather surely can’t have you married against your wishes, the moment this person sets foot in the house.’
‘It would be so much safer in every way if I weren’t here.’
I supposed she was referring to Sir Herbert’s violent temper. I felt sorry for her, but wished she hadn’t planted her burden on my doorstep.
‘Your stepfather said something surprising to Henrietta this evening,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘He wished she were ten years older.’
‘I wish to heaven she were.’ It burst out of her, vehement and unguarded. ‘When did he say it?’
I told her about Princess Charlotte’s portrait and the rest. All the time she stared at me, as if every word mattered. I hoped at the end of it that she’d tell me why it concerned her so much, but she just heaved a sigh nearly as deep as Rancie’s.
‘So what are we to do about your letter?’ I said.
Whatever happened, I must keep open a way of communicating with Blackstone.
‘I was hoping you’d think of something,’ she said.
‘You know the ways of the household better than I do.’
She stared down at her silk-stockinged ankles, looking so lost that I pitied her in spite of my annoyance.
‘If I can think of something, will you do it, Elizabeth?’
‘If you can, yes.’
She got up slowly, and took a few steps to the door, as if reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the schoolroom. At the door she turned round.
‘Don’t fail me. You’re my only hope.’
‘I’m my only hope as well,’ I said, but she was gone by then.
The next few days were almost calm, probably because Sir Herbert was away in London. I gathered that from Betty, who picked up most of the gossip from the other servants. I say ‘almost calm’ because even I was aware that the staff were having to work harder than ever. Whenever we left the snug little world of the nursery corridor, maids were flying in all directions, cleaning rooms, carrying armfuls of linen, washing the paint-work round doors and windows. Betty’s friend Sally reported that the kitchens were worse than Bedlam. Whenever I saw Mrs Quivering she had a worried frown on her face and two or three lists in her hand. Even the gardens, usually a peaceful refuge, seemed to have caught the panic, with a dozen men trimming lawn edges and clipping box hedges so precisely that we could have used them for illustrations in geometry. Relays of boys trotted from vegetable gardens to the back door of the kitchens with baskets of carrots, white turnips, new potatoes, radishes, spring onions, salsify, artichokes, great swags of feathery fennel, sage, thyme. The appetite of the house seemed endless, but Betty said this was all just practising. They were making sure they had the new recipes right. As a result, the servants hall was eating better than it had for years, which was one blessing at any rate, if everybody hadn’t been too harassed to enjoy it.
‘But what are they celebrating?’ I asked Betty.
She shrugged. Sir Herbert was a law unto himself. When we took the children down on Friday evening, he was still away. Stephen was there, talking to his sister by the window. They both looked serious. Celia glanced over her shoulder and soon afterwards came across to me.
‘Miss Lock, my trees simply will not come right. Do look.’
She said it loudly enough for anybody in the room to hear and had brought her sketchbook with her. Stephen stayed where he was, but gave me a glance and a nod of approval. We bent over the sketch on one of the pie-crust tables, heads together. Her hair smelled of lily-of-the-valley and I was aware that mine was sticky and dusty.
‘Will you be in the schoolroom later?’ she said, under her breath.
‘When?’
‘Around midnight. Will Betty have gone to bed by then?’
‘Yes,