A trio of keys, p.65
A Trio of Keys, page 65
“Coffee.” He needed it this morning.
“I’ll fetch it right away. Church this morning,” she reminded. She leashed the eager terrier and led him out to a waiting footman for his morning constitutional, as Liza called it. He’d laughed at the term applied to a dog. That was his first hint of his wife’s humor. She hadn’t given many more clues of it after her arrival.
Liza burrowed against him. He was glad he’d taken last night’s risk. He drew the covers over her shoulder before he nudged her. “Your maid is bringing your morning cuppa.”
She stretched like a cat. “Where’s my nightgown?”
He found it tangled in the bedcovers. She jerked it over her head as the door opened and the maid returned with a laden tray. She served her mistress first then him. He inhaled the strong aroma.
“Mercy, I thought—where is my usual cup?”
The maid folded her arms. “Broken, ma’am, like the rest of it.”
“But I used it yesterday!”
“Got dropped in the washing up, ma’am. I wish I’d washed it myself, but there you are.”
She looked at the tea then set the cup down. “Take this away, please.”
“Now, miss—ma’am, you need your morning cuppa.”
“I’ll take coffee,” she said firmly, “like my husband.”
“He don’t take sugar and cream. His valet told me. Best you start with them, ma’am.”
Greville waited until the door closed again. “Broken china?” he asked, wondering if he could piece this together the way he had the raffle tickets.
He didn’t expect two words to cause tears. She wiped them hastily. “I had a tea service that would serve two dozen. You remember, we would replace the chipped service with mine, but when they opened the crate, every piece was broken. And now the single set that I’ve used since my arrival is also broken.”
China was a foolish reason to cry. He didn’t understand how women attached sentiment to objects. But she shared the event because he’d asked. He leaned over and set his half-empty cup on a side table. “Sheffield is a long way for fragile freight.”
“Mercy said nothing was broken when she unpacked my single service. She had to search through many of the pieces because she had to hunt for the small teapot lid. Nothing was broken then.”
“Nothing was broken?” Her dark eyes glittered with unspilled tears, demanding silently that he do something. Even as he tucked her under his arm, Greville groaned inwardly. It was too early for his brain to work. Slowly he dragged the pieces into place. Liza wasn’t overly sentimental. She certainly wasn’t a hysteric. Her reaction after the urn proved that.
The shattered urn, the broken china. The urn deadly, the china spiteful.
“Does your maid know when the china was broken?”
“No. We thought the box room relatively secure. I would think it merely a nasty prank—.”
“Except for the urn. That makes it evil. And directed at you.”
“Why would anyone want to harm me?”
“Not harm. Murder. Planned. Premeditated. Evil.”
She shuddered. He tightened his hold.
Her maid entered with the requested coffee, a milky brown that would hide the strong flavor. Then the woman bustled around, opening the curtains, picking up his dropped robe and draping it over the foot of the bed, all the while chattering about hot water for washing, the colors Liza would wear for today’s church service. Greville watched Liza take her first sip of the coffee, close her eyes, then take a second.
“Like it?” he whispered as Mercy ran on about the cold luncheon that Cook would have for their return.
“Although that may be the amount of sugar that Mercy added.”
He chuckled and reached for his robe.
“Greville, you think these two events are connected?”
“Don’t you?” He planted a fist on the mattress and leaned close. “I want you to be careful. No wandering around without someone with you. Be observant. Watch for signs of trouble.”
“I wouldn’t have seen the urn. Sparky barked at something. I thought it was a bird.”
“Sir,” the maid said from the connecting door. “Rawley has a letter for you, delivered by messenger this morning.”
By messenger meant a special expense. He hoped the settlements he’d invested hadn’t flowed into the River Tick. “Liza, join me for breakfast?”
“Yes. I shouldn’t be delayed.”
“Don’t be. I’m especially ravenous this morning.” He bussed her mouth. Her flood of color pleased him.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Striding along the corridor, Greville passed his mother’s maid hurrying with a tray. Clarissa’s chamber door stood open; she was often before him. Cassandra’s door remained shut.
He rapped a quick tattoo, an old habit from childhood. Hearing no response, he knocked again.
“Oh, come in, do.” His younger sister sounded more than petulant.
She was dressed, perched on her bed with a large book. She wore a dyed embroidered muslin of green with yellow flowers. Without the scowl she gave him, she would have looked a pretty miss, and he told her so. Her scowl only increased.
He advanced further into the room and saw the open book was an atlas. “Planning an escape?”
“What would you care?”
“I would care very much, Sandy.” He used the diminuitive from their childhood, hoping to remind her of that bond, when the four siblings had outwitted the governesses and the tutors imposed upon them by parents more often in London than at home. Stanton’s return to school had been delayed, their father’s attempt at economy. Though their sisters were a decade younger, the brothers helped them escape the dreary nursery and learn to love the estate.
She flipped the atlas shut and shoved it away. The bed coverings rucked under it, saving it from a crash to the floor. “So you say. But you imprison me in my room!”
Greville laughed. “Hardly a prison. You have sunshine and comfortable furnishings. I daresay Cook sent up your favorite marmalade with your breakfast.”
“Don’t laugh at me! You don’t understand! And I don’t understand you! You’re picking her over us.”
He sighed. His cravat felt too tight. He ran a finger under the cloth to loosen the constriction. “Back to this, Sandy?”
“Don’t call me that. Why couldn’t you have married Victoria?”
The question asked for all the reasons he didn’t like Victoria, which he wouldn’t share with a sister who couldn’t control her tongue. He returned to his usual answer. “That sounds like our mother, not you. I’ve explained several times the necessity of my marriage to Liza.”
“She’s not one of us.”
“That definitely is straight from our mother. And Liza is one of us now.”
“I hate her!”
“Do you?” Did she? Had she tried to kill Liza? “Do you truly hate her? Or are you parroting Mother?”
“I can think for myself. I’m not a child.”
“Then don’t act like one. The world does not revolve around you, Cassandra. The behavior you show me now and last night does you no credit. Mother indulges you, but I will not allow you to threaten my wife. Liza is my wife. That will not change. I apparently cannot expect you to overcome the prejudice our mother has instilled in you, but I do expect you to offer my wife the courtesy you have no trouble extending to others. I expect it, and I demand it.”
“You don’t understand.”
“And you haven’t attempted to understand. While we are at church, I want you to think over what I have told you, right now, last evening, and all the times I have explained our financial situation to you. Ignore what Mother has said. She chooses to remain unreasonable. Continuing in your prejudice against your sister-in-law, continuing with wild comments such as those you treated us to last night, deliberately hurting your sister with such comments, these will not endear you to any potential suitor. When you have learned basic courtesy, I will tell you the reasons that I would never have offered for Victoria. You deserve to know these things. I wish you to know them. However, as long as you continue this childish behavior, I will not. You are seventeen, Cassandra. Please show me that you are worthy of my trust.”
“And if I don’t? What will you do? Keep me locked in my room?”
“You are not locked in, Cassandra. I would never imprison you. This is home. But I will require you to absent yourself from company until you behave with courtesy and gratitude.”
“I refuse to be grateful to her!”
“Think about all the ways that statement is wrong, Sandy.”
He shut the door quietly. He wanted to slam it, but he couldn’t expect rational behavior from Cassandra if he did not model it.
Chapter 14
At the breakfast table, Greville broke open the letter, which he discovered was from his London man of business, Mr. Vincent. Two sheets, closely written, sealed inside a third: the man certainly felt the matter was important.
The opening gave no reason for a special delivery. Vincent offered his felicitations and inquired about the members of the family, the patter that launched all his missives to Greville.
He didn’t arrive at the letter’s meat until two-thirds down the first page. Even then, Vincent came to his point in a roundabout manner. The Exchange stocks had vaulted in value when the French forces had abandoned Spain, with Napoleon’s brother removed from that throne. Austria’s entry in the coalition had steadied the stocks, which the cautious solicitor thought necessary because the French emperor had yet to face a decisive defeat. Nevertheless, Greville’s investments had reaped returns that would fund the estate improvements without dipping into the principal or the quarterly payments. Corbett Mills had recently added a new business, and the returns on the old man’s production remained favorable. After years of struggles, Vincent wrote, Providence now smiles upon whatever you deign to touch.
Vincent rattled out more sentences to reach the bottom of the page. Rather than turn the letter over, Greville re-read that sentence: Providence now smiles.
Last year’s cold summer had nearly killed Montford. Other farmers had also struggled, or Greville would have caved to his solicitor’s advice to sell the land. He would never have willingly turned his home over to strangers. Vincent had urged selling before major repairs became necessary. Last year, repairs to the roof, the dairy barn, the weir dam and its board-sided runs raced toward him. The mortgage ate any profits he realized. He had cursed his parents and grandparents for their profligate spending. They had escaped the consequences; he confronted them. Looking forward, he saw no possibility of a celebratory dinner with the fatted calf.
Until Mr. Vincent convinced him to sell himself through marriage to an heiress. Sinking his pride, he’d agreed before he stumbled a third time while climbing out of the pigsty.
Marriage to Liza, however, didn’t make him feel like the fatted calf sacrificed for the celebrating estate. From January to April he had clawed his way out of his own class prejudice. From April to now he saw how poisonous that prejudice was.
Cassandra’s words cut deepest because he had voiced them only a year before. He wouldn’t permit that narrow view to re-infect him.
His mother would never bend. She might find a way to live with his decision, but she would harbor her prejudice for the rest of her life. Cassandra might cast it off if she would consider the alternative. Perhaps she thought poverty romantic because she’d never suffered an empty stomach and threadbare clothes.
Greville finished his eggs and sausages before he turned over the first page Vincent’s letter to see what the man had delayed to the second page. Good news before the bad.
However, the man wrote. Greville had guessed that word was coming.
However, I have discovered distressing information about your wife. Prior to your engagement, she was romantically linked with a man named Gilbert Meaney. This man works for her grandfather. He manages a mill close to the young Mrs. Myers’ home in Sheffield. Information reported to me states that Mr. Meaney visited the house several times a week. During these visits, your wife was alone with him.
Liza hadn’t been with a man prior to her marriage. Greville couldn’t see Vincent’s purpose.
After her marriage to you, sir, your wife refused to see Mr. Meaney except for one visit on the day before she removed to Myers Montford. They met alone for a half-hour. Her mother stood outside the drawing room and refused to let anyone enter. Reports tell me that Meaney stormed out following this visit. Your wife did not appear to be in disarray although she was weeping.
The scone crumbled in his hand.
Winston appeared. “Sir? May I assist you?”
Greville tore his burning eyes from the letter. For a long second, the butler’s words meant nothing. Then the question clicked, but he struggled to find an answer. “More coffee,” he managed. When Winston turned away, he brushed the crumbs from his hand. He stared at the remains of the scone scattered over his plate. He picked up a portion, but his stomach revolted.
He didn’t know the reason Vincent had sought information about Liza. He could see the necessity for knowing about any of her entanglements prior to their betrothal and marriage. The cogs of Vincent’s machine had apparently continued to rotate slowly.
Damningly.
He didn’t understand how damning until he read the next page.
It has come to my attention, sir, that in the last three weeks, Gilbert Meaney has not appeared at his place of employment by Mr. Adam Corbett. I thought nothing of that information until another informant revealed that a man of Mr. Meaney’s description, calling himself Bert Manning, had found lodging in Wellesbourne Montford. I find this a strange and worrisome coincidence, sir. You are but six months’ married, and I have not pressed you to make a will. I plan to arrive on Monday the Sixth, so that we can conclude that business, ensuring the safety of the estate for any future heirs of Myers blood.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Between leaving her bedchamber and arriving at the breakfast table, her husband had achieved a horrid rage. It darkened his eyes and tightened his saturnine features.
Still glowing from last night, Liza offered her sunniest smile to everyone she passed, including Clarissa and her mother-in-law when she joined them at table. Her world offered hope for their future together. Yet when she seated herself at Greville’s right hand, he scowled. Her heart fell. He gave only a curt nod at her greeting and tucked a folded letter into an inner pocket.
Was that the letter that had arrived by messenger?
She hesitated to tackle Greville about his change before his mother and sister. The Myers women presented an intimidating front. Cassandra remained in exile, but both women looked unapproachable this morning. What had disturbed Clarissa’s sunny mood?
Mrs. Myers was explaining that she had ordered a second carriage. “I intend to take luncheon with the Pethbridges. I did miss their company yesterday.”
After a look at her brother, Clarissa opted to join her mother.
Greville delayed their departure a few minutes. The other carriage had rolled from the forecourt before they walked from the house. As always, he offered his hand as Liza climbed into the carriage. Then he chose to sit opposite her. Arms crossed, he stared out the window.
Liza waited until the coach rolled away from the house. The noisy gravel under the red wheels would hide her comments unless a groom had abnormally keen hearing.
Greville had little patience for people who ran around head-wagging, so she cut straight to the center. “What has happened? You are angry.”
His lip lifted. She’d never seen his sneer. She didn’t like it. “I’m not angry.”
“You are treating me as if you are angry with me.”
He shook his head. “Angry, Liza?” He used that silky tone from last evening. She shivered as the words slithered over her like a keen-bladed knife. “Angry isn’t the correct word. I am enraged.”
She waited, but he looked away and stared at the passing trees of the parkland.
Oaks bordered the drive, but maples and pines filled the understory, rampant green beyond the verge. Nothing should have captured his attention.
“Enraged at me,” she ventured. Even though he gave no additional sign, she was certain. “What was in that letter? Who sent it?” When he didn’t respond, she struck harder. “What lies did they tell?”
His glittering gaze pierced her. She quailed. “Who is Bert Manning?” he snarled.
She blinked. “Who?”
“Bert Manning, my dear wife.”
Those words hurt. At some point, she didn’t know when, she had come to yearn to be called dear wife. She had not wanted the words spat at her. Or with wrath growling in every syllable. She pressed against the coach seat. “I do not know that name.”
His grin was predatory. “No? He has another, I understand, not so different from the alias he is using this fortnight. Do you care to guess it?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Try Gilbert Meaney.”
“Oh.” That sounded weak. “I didn’t tell you about him.”
“No. Mr. Vincent had to do so.”
So, that thin-lipped man of business had lied. Liza didn’t like the man. He’d so carefully had her sign every document, so carefully explained that her husband now controlled the marriage settlements and would control every Corbett shilling when Grandfather died. She had hated Mr. Vincent on that day. Better to hate him, she had considered, than the man I will marry and see every waking moment for the rest of my life. The man I’ve fallen in love with.
The recognition punched through her. She gasped.
“How many secrets are you keeping, Elizabeth?”
Greville’s voice rasped over raw nerves. “I did have a life before I met you,” she slashed, like a wounded cat striking back.
“Gilbert Meaney is part of that old life. I did not expect him to be part of your life with me.”
“He isn’t.”
“Don’t lie, dear wife.”
