Authors: Suzette Stone
“Yes my lady?” the stable hand asked.
“I think Lord Edwin must still be up at the mines,” she lied. “Ride up and tell him he needs to be back here to leave for Truro right away.”
“Yes my lady.”
She watched as the boy mounted his horse and rode off across the moors. Suddenly, she felt trouble brewing the same as she did when Jack left. Try as she might, she could not shake it off.
Opening the door of her husband’s study, she walked over to his desk, picked up the piece of paper with the names of the men who lost their lives in the accident. She scanned down the list, her eyes brimming with tears.
Young men
, she thought despondently, her gaze stopping at Trystan’s name. Young men with their whole lives in front of them.
She thought of Jenna, now a young widow, and of Jack. She wondered if her husband wrote to inform him of the disaster.
Probably not
, she surmised, looking around the desk for Edwin’s writing set.
She brushed aside the bundles of papers lying on her husband’s messy desk, not finding the writing set. As she opened the middle drawer she spotted a folded sheet of paper. She opened it, a smaller handwritten note falling into her lap. Inside, she found a list of repairs required of the mine, together with the handwritten note from the mine captain concerning the mine shaft. Edwin had crossed out the inspector’s repair list, his own handwriting denoting notes to himself as to when the work would be carried out, which work would be done and which he deemed too expensive and time consuming.
”Oh, Edwin,” she gasped, shocked as she read the letter. ”What have you done?”
She picked up the pieces of paper and placed them in her pocket. She would confront her tight fisted, money hungry beast of a husband later. She furiously stomped out of the office, her mind reeling with the discovery, and made her way out to her rose garden in her quest to calm her angry mood.
She was disturbed by shouting coming from the house. Her frenzied looking butler rushed out to the garden.
“It’s the lord,” he shouted. “It’s the lord.”
Emmeline gazed calmly down to where her rose cuttings lay in a heap.
So this is it
? she thought, a sudden feeling of serenity washing over here. This is what my queer anxiety is about.
She knew, even before the butler stopped beside her, leading her over to the low bench in the middle of the rose garden and seating her down, that her husband was dead. And she knew the sadness she felt was not for her him.
In a cloud of tranquility, she followed the butler to where her mare stood waiting for her. The voices and frenzied excitement of those around her faded into the distance as she mounted her horse and, bending down, beckoned the butler over to her.
“Has the constable been sent for?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Very good. I wish to have note sent of this to Sir Jack Bartholomew in London. Please advise him he needs to return forthwith to Penrose House.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
She watched as the butler scurried off, ordering everyone around. The sudden contented peacefulness she felt amazed her. It felt as though she were in a daze as she galloped across the moorland, following the young stable hand, whose face still remained white with shock at having found his master in such a deathly state. She was pleased to note it was just she and the stable hand as they reached the place where Edwin lay. The stable hand waited politely at a distance, allowing her an amount of privacy as she dismounted and took in the sight of her husband.
Who did this to you
? she pondered as she calmly noted the stab wound in his chest, the knife still pierced through the heart. Was it someone seeking retribution for the mining disaster?
As she looked down over the face of the man she spent her married life with, she felt nothing – no sadness, no happiness, no relief. Nothing. It was as though all the years spent with him had been a waste. She never loved him. He never loved her. Why, even seeing him in this state she felt little sorrow. Only sorrow they ever married at all.
Oh, Edwin
. She absentmindedly picked up his cold hand and held it in hers. What a waste our lives have been, living together when neither one of us were happy, or content. She brought the palm to her lips, the skin feeling papery as she planted a soft kiss on it.
You will have much to account for I’m afraid
, she noted, still reeling from the letters she found. Much to account for.
She glanced around the murder site, looking for any evidence of who else had been there. Looking closely at the ivory handled knife, she noted the initials carved in to it
T.T
. Her mind drew a blank. It could be any man with a grudge in this area, certain there were many.
Emmeline wished Jack were closer to Cornwall than all the way in London. She needed him now to be here, to take care of things for her. She held little desire in arranging a funeral and little still of being involved in her husband’s murder enquiry. She looked back down at her husband’s face. It was strange how Edwin appeared so calm and placid, his normal angry face, replaced by an expression of peacefulness.
The sun, briefly covered by the morning clouds, appeared to highlight the gray palor of Edwin’s skin. But something else caught her eye, a glint of some metal under the fern at Edwin’s head. She leant over him, brushing aside the fern leaves and reaching for the glistening metal, grasped it in her palm as she sat back on her heels. She opened her hand and gulped at the panic rising in her breast. It was a locket. Apprehensively, she opened small hinge.
Please, God, don’t let it be so
, she willed as she looked down, her worst fear suddenly being realized.
Jenna. She looked over her shoulder to where the stable hand stood, eager to see if he saw anything. Fortunately, he turned his head in his wish to give her private mourning with her husband. In the distance, she heard the thunder of horse hooves along the moor.
The constabulary
, she thought anxiously, eyeing once more the knife in the wound, the initials now making clear sense to her. She knew in an instant
the perpetrator of the crime and why the crime had been committed. But the knife! She looked once more at it. The constable would surely track the initials over time. She looked back to the stable hand, the noise of the horses coming closer.
I have to take this knife
, she thought, throwing her body over that of her husband’s as though in a sudden fit of tearful emotion. Using her cloak as camouflage, she grasped the knife handle in her palm. It took all her effort to try and remove it from the wound, but it would not free.
The sound of the horse hooves now sent reverberations through her as they moved closer and closer. Anxiously, she grasped the handle once more, wriggling the knife in the wound, trying to dislodge it. It began to loosen as she hastily retrieved it, flicking it back into itself and placing it underneath her blouse, together with the locket and wrapping herself firmly in her shawl. She bent her head once more across Edwin’s chest, this time real tears of relief wetting her cheeks. She heard the horse hooves come to a standstill by the body, the embarrassed throat clearing of the constable, ill equipped to deal with such displays of emotions from the usually staid Lady Penrose.
After a few moments, he kindly placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “My lady,” he began, urging her to unlock her grasp from the body. “We must take a look at the body.”
“Of course.” She sobbed, pleased she had been able to remove the evidence before others could.
The constable helped her to her feet, walking her over to where the village doctor stood with a flask of brandy in his hand. “I think you need to get her home, doctor.”
“Thank you, constable,” Lady Emmeline said tearfully, gulping down the warmth of the brandy. “I just wish to be alone in my grief.”
“How do I look?” Sir Jack glanced down at Charlie as he fixed his silk puff tie.
“Handsome,” Charlie replied, pouring Jack a tumbler of whiskey and handing it to him. “You look like a proper gentleman should.”
Jack smiled, swigging back the drink and handing the empty tumbler to his little apprentice. “I need all the help I can get to get through tonight with the dull and spiritless Phillippa.”
“You can always say you’re ill.”
Jack shook his head. “Alas, I’m afraid I have been picked out of the few eligible bachelors London holds by the countess as an appealing consort for her daughter and a promising would be son-in-law.” He watched in the mirror as the boy took a swig of whiskey and spit it out in disgust.
“How awful!” Charlie grimaced.
“What’s awful, the whiskey or me as a suitor for Phillippa?”
“Both! What will you do?”
“Be as badly behaved as possible.” Jack winked. “And on my next visit I’ll drop in a few stories of my crumbling fortune.”
“What’s a crumbling fortune got to go with it?”
“Everything!” Jack laughed. “The countess is one of the richest women in England and it just would not do to have her daughter marry beneath her. For some reason, one that remains a mystery to me, the countess has got it into that thick skull of hers that I am not only financially sound, but on a par with her.”
Jack stood, picking up his cane from the corner of the room. “I’m off. And what are you going to do with yourself?”
“Finish my lessons with Miss. Barrett,” Charlie answered, speaking of the governess Jack employed to teach Charlie the basics of reading and writing.
“Very good.” It pleased him how well Charlie was doing under his tutelage.
* * * *
Jack waited until the carriage came to a complete stop and the door opened before making his way to the countess’s doorway. He hovered hesitantly for a while, slipping his flask from his coat pocket and taking another swig, trying to summon up some enthusiasm for the night ahead.
The countess met him in the drawing room, a gleeful glint in her eye as she bade him to sit down. “Phillippa is looking simply stunning tonight. Oh, you are a lucky man, Sir Jack!”
Jack looked down at his hands, trying to suppress a smile.
The countess seemed to take his movement as a sign of sudden shyness, ordering her servant to pour him a jigger of whiskey. “Should calm the nerves.” She giggled like an overgrown school girl as she watched him down the liquid in one go. “Now, now, take it slow. I shouldn’t want you to be getting tipsy.”
A servant knocked on the door as he entered. “May I present Miss Phillippa Standish.”
The countess squealed with delight as they both stood and Phillippa shuffled inside, dressed in a bold red silk dress, which hung loosely on her skeletal frame. Her mousy locks were styled in ringlets, her cheeks bright with rouge and her neck and wrists framed with expensively bejeweled articles. She looked like a child set loose in her mother’s dress-up box.
Jack felt a sudden surge of pity toward the poor specimen standing before them, her eyes never leaving the floor.
“Oh, doesn’t she just look lovely, Jack?” the countess raved.
“Yes,” Jack answered, feeling awful for her daughter. “She looks….”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Phillippa, look up dear! Let us see those stunning eyes of yours.”
Phillippa lifted her gaze to meet Jack’s. Her grey eyes seemed so sad. No sparkle, no life.
Unusual for a young woman
, he mused.
“Well, I think we must leave or we will be late,” Jack said, eager to escape the suffocating confines of the countess’s marital plans.
“Oh, yes! And do take good care of my baby!”
* * * *
Jack looked out of the window at the passing streets as his carriage rolled along on its way to Covent Garden. Phillippa said not one word since she climbed in across from him, her eyes still firmly rooted to the ground. He found the whole conversation extremely difficult.
“Are you a fan of the opera, Miss. Standish?”
“No,” she replied, not offering any reason.
“The theatre is perhaps of more interest to you?”
“I do not care for the theatre either.”
“Well, maybe the horses? Parties? Fashion? Religion?” Jack continued, wondering why he even bothered.
“No, no, no and no.” Phillippa rubbed her hands together.
They continued on their journey in silence until she lifted her pale eyes from the floor and looked at him. “Sir Jack, we need not continue under this sham my mother has placed us in. I know you have no desire in me as much as I have no desire in you.”
He smiled, impressed by her honesty and clarity of thought. He watched as a slow smile crossed her thin and tired looking face.
“My mother is very apt at forcing me into situations she thinks will be beneficial to her. She has little consideration for what I wish or what the other person wishes. You must forgive her impudence.”
He nodded.
“You see I am betrothed to another man.”
He caught his breath, surprised at the secrets she held. “Does your mother know of this betrothal?”
She shook her head. “She knows of the man, but not the betrothal. She would not approve.”
“He obviously does not have enough money or social standing for your mother’s taste.”
She laughed coldly. “Indeed he doesn’t. He is a soldier and my mother disapproves whole heartedly. If she knew we continued to see each other after she forbade it and, worse still, were engaged, she would not be happy.”
“What are you going to do? Where is he?” he asked, intrigued by the secret liaison.
“He is currently abroad fighting on the continent, but will be returning shortly. Here, look.” She reached into her cloak pocket, retrieving a letter. “He writes to me weekly, addressed to my maid. She knows of us. But in the meantime, whilst he is away I cannot sleep. I cannot eat and am consumed with fear for his safety.”
“It sounds as though you are very much in love, Phillippa.” Memories of his own secret liaison filled his heart with gloom. “What are you planning to do when he returns?”
“Elope,” Phillippa said, her weakness suddenly replaced by a great strength. “It is impossible for me to live without him and he without me. I shall be forced to elope. Mother will probably cast me off from the family. But he is worth it for, you see, without him life is not worth living.”
Jack cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I have misjudged you, Phillippa. Forgive me?”
She nodded and sat back in the carriage, a relaxed look on her face. “I wanted to get this out of the way. Mother has encouraged me on dates with the most awful men. I felt I could talk to you about this and you would understand. Your eyes speak as though you yourself have known great heartache.”
He nodded, suddenly sitting up in the carriage seat. “Do you really like the opera?”
“I despise it,” she said with a laugh.
And so they both peered out of the window as the carriage rolled by Covent Garden, past the crowds mulling outside of the opera house. The carriage wound its way through the streets, finally stopping instead at a small shoppe located on a back road.
“What is this?” Phillippa asked curiously.
“Wait here. I’ll be back.” Jack jumped down from the carriage, returning with two steaming hot pies, topped with mushy peas and gravy. “This,” he said, handing one of the pies to Phillippa, “is an East End specialty. You won’t find a better pie than this in the whole of England and you, my new and dear friend, could use some fattening up lest your beau should return to find you a bag of bones or, worse, still fighting illness!” He sat back across from Phillippa, taking a large bite of the pie. “And, when you’re finished, let me tell you about Jenna Penworthy.”