A Conspiracy of Ravens (29 page)

“Here, you take the lines.”

“I don’t know ’ow to drive a sleigh.”

Tim had hitched a powerful horse to a sleigh, and Gervase had driven out of the yard. Trevor had held on, for she drove the horses at a fast pace. Finally she had slowed down and offered him the lines. “There’s nothing to it. Dolly there knows all about it.”

He smiled and took the lines from her, and indeed there was little to do. He said, “Get up, Dolly,” and slapped the lines on the horse’s back. She at once broke into a run, and Trevor guided her with what little skill he had around the natural obstacles in the field. From time to time there would be a jolt, and Gervase would slide up against him.

Finally he slowed the horse down to a walk and said, “Why, that was fun.”

“It doesn’t take much to please you, Trevor.”

He turned then to examine her more closely. She had the clearest and most beautiful complexion he’d ever seen. He wanted to put his arms around her but remembered that she was not receptive to things like that.

“Why do you think I’ll make a go of it as something I’m not?”

“Because you’re strong, Trevor.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I can tell. And you’re going to make Uncle Edward and Aunt Heather the happiest couple in the world. For years they had no children, and now they have a son. You have it in your power to make their lives happy. And it’s the best thing for you too. Don’t waste it.”

He suddenly pulled the horse to a halt and turned to face her. He saw her watching him and could not understand what was behind her gaze. He fully expected her to shove him away, but when he put his arm around her, she leaned against him. When he kissed her, he felt her respond. He had known women before, but this was different. There was a wild sweetness in the softness of her lips, and he knew that this woman was unlike any he had ever known.

She drew away gently, putting her hand on his chest. “That’s enough. I can see you don’t need any lessons in kissing. Now, take me home, Sir Trevor of Silverthorn!”

Charles Crinshaw sat talking with Mrs. Swifton, the housekeeper. The two of them had been at Silverthorn for many years and were fast friends. Actually together they served as co-captains of the house. It was unlikely that a ship would ever have two captains, but with a house and staff the size of Silverthorn’s, there was too much work for one. They sat there drinking tea, and Mrs. Swifton, from time to time, jotted down thoughts for the work to be done tomorrow.

“A lot of work to be done around here. Christmas is always hard,” Crinshaw said. He leaned back slightly in his chair. The day had been long. His duties had been many, as always, and he was feeling his age. “I’m tired,” he confessed.

“You work too hard, Charles.”

“It has to be done.”

“I know,” she said, “but both of us are getting older. We need to learn how to slow down.”

“Well, it won’t be during this Christmas season. Lord and Lady Darby want to make this a Christmas to be remembered for the young master.”

“I know. They have all kinds of plans.” She laughed shortly and sipped her tea. “They make decisions, and it never occurs to them that someone has to make all those things happen. But I’m not complaining. This is a good place. What do you think of the young man?”

“Well, like a fairy tale, isn’t it now?” He smiled at her, and the two, for a while, discussed the phenomena that all the staff had been gossiping about.

“He seems to be a good enough young man, considering his background. But I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to fit himself in here,” Mrs. Swifton said.

“He’s got a sharp mind. I think he might.” He straightened up, stretched, and said, “Well, it’s time to mix Lord Darby’s sleeping draught.”

It was an old joke between them. “Why don’t you tell me what’s in it?” she begged.

“No, it’s my secret. One of these days I’m going to market it and become a rich man.” He winked at her and said, “I’ll buy a mansion, and you can be my housekeeper.”

“Get along with you now!”

He disappeared into the butler’s pantry, and Mrs. Swifton closed her notebook, got up, and with a sigh, left the kitchen. Christmas was indeed little pleasure for her, for it was mostly work, work, work.

“I’m very happy about the way Gervase is paying attention to Trevor.”

Heather had already gone to bed and was lying there watching Edward as he moved about the room. He had always had great trouble sleeping and usually drank the sleeping draught that Crinshaw prepared. “I think they get along very well. I’m glad too.”

“She took him for a sleigh ride. Did he tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, she did. Just the sort of thing she does best.”

“She’s a sweet girl. Some lucky man will get a prize in her.”

Edward turned, and a thought crossed his mind. “What about young Worthington? He used to call quite often.”

“She wasn’t interested in him.”

“Well, who is she interested in?”

“Oh, some young man will come along.” The two talked for some time, and finally Edward glanced up at the clock. “It’s ten fifteen. Crinshaw must have forgotten.”

“Well, that isn’t likely. He’s so conscious of his duties.”

“Well, he’s had a lot to do. I’ll go down and get the drink. I’ll be right back.”

“Hurry. It’s very cold.”

Edward left the room and went downstairs into the kitchen, which was empty. “Crinshaw?” he called. When there was no answer, he walked over to the door that led to the butler’s pantry where all the special supplies were. “Crin—,” he started to call again, and then his throat seemed to close.

There on the floor was the body of Crinshaw, his face twisted in agony. At once Edward kneeled over and asked, “Crinshaw, are you all right?”

But he saw at once that the man was not all right. Edward felt a chill when he realized that the man was probably dead. The body had the awful stillness of death. Quickly Edward started calling, “Mrs. Swifton—Mrs. Swifton!” She had not gone to bed yet, and she came at once.

“What is it, sir?”

“It’s—it’s Crinshaw. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Impossible! We were talking just a few minutes ago.”

“He’s in the pantry,” Edward said. “Don’t go look. We’ll have to have a doctor . . . and the police, I suppose.”

“Don’t go yourself. Send Tim and Samuel.”

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

The two stood staring at each other, and she said, “It must have been a stroke or a bad heart.”

“There was nothing wrong with his heart. He had a strong constitution. I’ll go tell Tim to fetch Dr. Newton and Samuel to notify the police. Don’t let anyone go into the pantry.”

“Of course not.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe he’s gone. Just a few minutes ago we were talking about Christmas, and now he’s dead?”

Edward could not think of a reply and left the room without a word. He found the coachman and after breaking the news said, “Go by Dr. Newton’s first. Ask him to come at once.”

“Yes, sir, right away.”

He watched the coachman hurry away. “Dead. Almost on Christmas. I’ll miss the fellow. I truly will.” He thought about how long Crinshaw had worked for him and then sadly he realized,
I
hardly knew him. How sad that is!

EIGHTEEN

S
erafina had gone to bed rather early, but sleep evaded her. After tossing and turning and trying every way she knew to fall asleep, finally with a sigh of resignation, she threw the covers back and got out of bed. The room was cold, for the fire had gone down, and she shivered as she slipped into her heavy wool robe and donned socks and slippers. Going over to the fire, she added several of the rich pine knots that the servants provided. Putting them on the coals, she blew, and soon they burst into flames as the rich sap ignited. For a while she stood there feeding the fire with small lengths of wood until it made a pleasant roaring sound and sent sparks flying up the chimney.

Finally she turned and walked to her desk. Sitting down, she pulled a book forward and opened it to the part she had been reading. It was an old discourse by the Frenchman Pascal concerning a series of experiments he had made on the equilibrium of fluids. She knew that Pascal had also been a Christian of some note, but her interest was in the man’s scientific discoveries.

Outside the wind keened like an animal as it whipped around the windows, and she found herself unable to continue her study. With a sigh of disgust she closed the book, shoved it away, then for a moment just sat there. Finally she moved over to a chest against the wall, opened the bottom drawer, pulled out a book, and walked back to her desk with it. The gaslight cast its glow over the book, which was bound in red leather, and for a moment she hesitated before opening it. The book was one of a series of journals she had been keeping for years, ever since she was thirteen years old. It amused her sometimes to go back and read what her thoughts had been at a time that seemed so long ago. She was amazed at how fanciful she had been as a young girl, but her father had eliminated most of that side of her character with his insistence that she rely solely on pure science.

This journal was the latest one, and as she opened it, memories arose of Clive’s murder charge and how he’d almost gone to the gallows. It had only been a few months ago, but still she had troublesome thoughts about how close her brother had come to death.

She paused suddenly, for her eyes fell on a passage that she had not read since she had written it. Leaning forward she read silently the words that she had penned:

An insufferable man named Dylan Tremayne came to the house today. He’s an actor, and he had come to tell our family how to take care of Clive. He first told me that Clive needed to be put in better quarters, and that he thought the family should use its influence to do so. That was very well, but then Tremayne told me that God had told him to help my brother. How pious he is! A ranting Methodist, I suppose, or something of that sort. I never could bear religious fanatics, and apparently he is one. I will admit that he is probably the best-looking man that I’ve ever seen—as if that amounts to anything.

The entry broke off there, and Serafina stared at the next few lines, which brought back a memory that had not faded from her mind:

I determined to find the woman whom Clive had spent the evening with on the night the murder was committed. It made me angry that Tremayne had told me that this was no job for a woman, and I determined to prove him wrong. I went to the Seven Dials district, got out of the carriage, and told Givins to wait. I began to ask people I met on the street but with no success whatsoever. The area was terrible, worse than anything I had ever seen. Filth was everywhere, and the odor of rotting garbage was almost more than I could bear.

I asked a big man about the woman, and he suddenly grabbed me and was pulling me away. I began to try to scream and to fight him, but he was a strong brute, and I had no success. Then suddenly Dylan Tremayne appeared. He called the man by name, told him to let go of me, and when he didn’t, Tremayne struck him a tremendous blow. There was a fight, and the man drew a knife, but Tremayne drove him off. I don’t think I was ever so relieved in my life. Tremayne was, I must admit, a gentleman despite his profession. He made no reference to the fact that he had warned me against this but saw me back to my carriage. I tried to thank him, but the words would not seem to come.

Serafina put her hand on the book, and the scene came swarming back in her mind. She continued to read about how Tremayne had become her mentor in one respect. He knew the underworld well, and it was he who conducted the search to find the prostitute Clive had gone to the night of the murder. She realized,
I don’t
know what I would have done without him.

Somehow the journal made Serafina uncomfortable. She got up, walked over to the fire, and warmed her hands, thinking of that time. She did not want to read more, but somehow she was compelled. Going back, she sat down and read through the entries, all of them, and the story of Clive’s troubles came before her. She came to one passage that caused her cheeks to flame:

I had a weak moment tonight, and I suppose Dylan saw it. He kissed me, and I didn’t resist him. I must be honest. It would be the only logical thing to do. I never wanted any man to touch me again, not after the travesty that Charles had made of our marriage, but when Dylan put his arms around me and kissed me, I must confess that it made me feel—well, like a woman for the first time in many years. I did not surrender, of course, to that feeling, for it went against everything that’s in my heart. Dylan apologized, and I told him that it made no difference, but it shocked me down to the bone, the feelings that I had for that man.