Chapter Fourteen
T he captain stared at Diana across his desk. Quietly, he said, “Tell me.”
Diana swallowed down the lump in her throat. She had never talked about this with anyone except her siblings. But the guilty burden had weighed on her for years. The overwhelming need to share it was met by a concern and empathy in his gaze so compelling, she found herself pouring out her heart.
“I was seven years old. My mother had been ill for a year and was now thin, pale, and bedridden. One morning, she asked me to go to the apothecary and fetch a tonic that had helped her before. She didn’t want the staff to know because my father disapproved of the tonic. I put the money in my pocket and dashed off to the village. But when I got there, my friends Nancy and Beatrice, the vicar’s daughters, invited me to play with them. I didn’t think my mother would mind if I played for just a few minutes. But before I knew it, it was growing dark, and by then, I had forgotten all about my errand. When I got home, I learned that my mother had had a stroke while I’d been gone. She died that night.”
“Dear God.” The captain shook his head. “And you blamed yourself?”
“If I had not been so selfish… if I had brought my mother the tonic… she would have lived.”
“You must know that isn’t true. It sounds as if your mother was very ill and would have died that night or soon after in any case.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Diana wiped at the tears that streaked her cheeks. “No one blamed me. No one knew my mother had asked for a tonic. And yet… I knew . I kept the secret to myself, confided in no one except my brother and my sisters many years later.”
Ever since, like a heavy book that’d been placed upon a wrinkled paper to flatten it out, the weight of Diana’s guilt had pressed down on her, day after day, year after year, until it had become a part of her that was impossible to extract. She wasn’t sure why she was telling the captain now. Maybe it was because they shared the same sense of guilt—the belief that they had inadvertently killed someone dear to them.
“Since then,” Diana continued, “I’ve spent every day of my life trying to make amends for that mistake.”
“Amends? How?”
“By being the best person that I can. By serving others. By helping people to manage their lives, trying to prevent them from making mistakes like I did.”
“You are a good woman, Miss Taylor, and your goals have merit. But you were just a child when your mother passed away. It was not your fault. You are not responsible for what happened that day. You must forgive yourself.”
Diana shook her head, knowing this to be impossible. Her voice wavered. “I could say the same for you, Captain, with regard to your aunt and cousin.”
He took that in and fell silent. His forehead creased. “A good reminder,” he answered quietly, “which I shall try to take to heart. But as you have discovered, that is easier said than done.”
*
Diana spent all her spare time over the next few days translating the documents Captain Fallbrook had given her with the help of a German dictionary she’d found on the schoolroom shelf.
As she worked, Diana couldn’t stop thinking about her last conversation with the captain. Admitting to her part in her mother’s death had been like ripping open an age-old wound. Her heart felt raw. Her soul felt bare, all her guilt and shame on view for him to see. And yet, the captain hadn’t seemed to judge her. His response had been compassionate.
“You are not responsible for what happened that day.”
If only she could believe that.
She knew the reverse to be true for Captain Fallbrook. On the day that Lady Fallbrook and Robert Fallbrook had been lost at sea, the captain hadn’t neglected his duty and selfishly indulged his own pleasures. He had struggled valiantly to find them, and in so doing, might have drowned himself. It had obviously been an accident. He was wrong to blame himself.
Diana may not be able to fix her own situation, but she could do something about his . If she was correct—if Sir Thomas had not killed himself out of grief for his lost family or for any other reason—although murder was a dark and terrible alternative, knowing the truth might ease one portion of the captain’s guilty burden.
She had promised to keep her eyes and ears open for her godmother, and she would keep that promise. Not only for her, but now for her pupil and Captain Fallbrook as well. Someone might make a telling remark that would open a new door. If she had heard nocturnal footsteps once, she might hear them again. Who knew where they might lead? When she had time, she would resume her search for Sir Thomas’s journal.
With that settled in her mind, Diana returned her focus to the letters she was translating. The drafts of Sir Thomas’s letters were in imperfect German, had numerous words crossed out, and were peppered with ink blots. Diana agreed with the captain’s theory that Sir Thomas must have rewritten clean versions before sending them.
By contrast, the letters from the German company were neat and businesslike. However, she had noticed a pattern in the paperwork that filled her with unease. As Diana translated the final document in the folder, an alarming notion suddenly struck her.
Was this, she wondered, the answer to the riddle about Sir Thomas’s death?
She must speak to the captain at once.
Taking the folder with her, Diana hurried to the opposite wing, recalling that Captain Fallbrook sometimes worked in his study in the late afternoon. She reached that chamber and paused in the open doorway. Captain Fallbrook was seated at his desk. Before him sat a gentleman she recognized.
Apprehension tightened her stomach. This man’s name had come up several times in the paperwork she had just translated.
The captain glanced up. “Miss Taylor.”
“Forgive me, sir. I didn’t realize you had a visitor. I’ll come back later.”
“We have finished our business. Allow me to introduce you.” He and the gentleman rose as Diana entered the room. “Latimer, may I present Miss Taylor, my cousin’s new governess. Miss Taylor, this is my solicitor, Mr. John Latimer.”
“Miss Taylor and I have met. At Beardsley’s in the village, a fortnight ago, I think it was?” Mr. Latimer appraised Diana with his steady gaze, a look that once again sent a slight chill rippling up her spine.
“How nice to see you again, sir.” Diana dipped in a polite curtsy.
“It turns out Miss Taylor has some facility with the German tongue,” the captain remarked. “I asked her to translate the documents I mentioned.”
Latimer’s eyebrows raised. “Is that right? I thought governesses taught little more than the three Rs and a bit of needlework.”
Did Diana detect a note of anxiety in his voice and features?
“I am lucky to have found one so skilled,” said the captain. “How have you been progressing, Miss Taylor?”
“Very well, sir. I have finished my translations.”
“I look forward to your report.”
Captain Fallbrook exchanged a few additional words with his solicitor, they shook hands, and with a parting bow, Mr. Latimer exited. Diana took the vacated chair, and the captain resumed his own seat.
“So, what did you find?”
Diana set the folder she’d brought on his desk. “As you suspected, these letters and legal documents are all related. They pertain to a financial investment Sir Thomas made with a German company called Franke and Dietrich, to build a new railway line in Germany.”
“A railway line? That surprises me.” The captain rubbed his chin. “When the so-called ‘Railroad Mania’ started up in this country five years ago, my uncle told me he suspected stock prices were inflated and he was leery of investing. How right he was.”
Diana knew about the recent crash in railway shares in England. It had been a major topic of conversation both upstairs and downstairs. The debacle had cost its speculators millions. “However, based on this correspondence, he did make such an investment in Germany.”
The captain nodded. “Well, from what I’ve read, railroad shares are a safer bet on the Continent.”
“Perhaps. However, I don’t think this one was quite so safe after all. I have little experience when it comes to financial matters, but something about this deal seems fishy to me.”
His eyebrows rose. “How so?”
“The first letter is dated March 1847, two and a half years ago. Franke and Dietrich promised investors an excellent return on their investment after the railroad was in operation and turned a profit. A flurry of correspondence went back and forth until the contract was signed, and the stock certificates delivered. Eighteen months ago, the company reported that production had begun. Since then, letters from Germany have dwindled. As far as I know—as far as the letters I have goes—the last one is dated nine months ago.”
The captain shrugged. “A new railway line must be an enormous undertaking. The company has no doubt been busy overseeing matters more pressing than correspondence with investors.”
“What could be more important than keeping their investors happy? And yet, despite many attempts on your uncle’s part to reach Franke and Dietrich—it seems as though he kept an early draft of every letter he sent, seeking information about progress on the line and requesting a tour of the area where the track was being laid—it appears that they never replied.”
The captain took that in. “Did anyone oversee the deal from this end?”
“Yes. His solicitor, Mr. Latimer. His signature is on several of the documents.”
“And you think… what? That something went wrong with the deal?”
“It may have. Perhaps the company encountered problems building the railway line.”
“If that happened, surely, Latimer would have informed me, since it would presumably represent a loss to the estate I was inheriting.”
“Perhaps he isn’t aware of the issues involved.”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
“That’s not all. You said your uncle had just returned from a trip to Germany the week before he died, and he was distracted and depressed. You theorize that he was still grieving for his wife and son. But might his disquiet have been due to a speculation that went bad?”
The captain considered the notion, then shook his head. “My uncle was a rich man. One bad investment, if that is indeed what happened, would not seriously impact this estate—certainly not enough to drive him to suicide.”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, studying her. “What are you suggesting, then?”
“What if, during your uncle’s trip to Germany, he discovered that this financial scheme had gone wrong? What if he met with the men behind the project—and threatened to reveal what he had learned? Might that be a motive for them to want him dead?”
He stared at her long and hard, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “Allow me to be certain I understand you. You are implying that”—he glanced at a document in the folder—“Franke or Dietrich—or Franke and Dietrich—sailed across the North Sea to England with the express object of pushing my uncle off a cliff? Or hired someone to do the dirty deed for them?”
“It is possible, isn’t it? If Franke and Dietrich absconded with the money, they might have been desperate to preserve their secret.”
The captain’s lips twitched as if he were struggling to repress a smile. “An interesting conjecture. I do appreciate your efforts in executing these translations, Miss Taylor, and I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention. I am afraid, however, that you are letting your imagination run away with you. As I said before: my uncle wasn’t murdered. He took his own life.”
“Captain—”
“I’m sure Franke and Dietrich are perfectly respectable businessmen. John Latimer’s father was my uncle’s solicitor for decades. When the old gentleman died the son took over. John is a good man. He has patiently gone over the estate accounts with me these past few months. I will speak to him about this railway scheme. Hopefully, there is a simple answer for all of it.”
Diana bit back a response, forcing herself to nod respectfully. She didn’t believe in simple answers. And she didn’t like being doubted.
“Where there is smoke, there is fire.”
Something untoward was going on here. Somehow, she would get to the bottom of it.
*
Pendowar Hall, Cornwall
My dearest Mrs. Phillips,
I hope you received good news from the doctor on Wednesday and that you are feeling better this week than the last. I promised to send regular notes about my progress at Pendowar Hall, and here is my latest report.
I want to begin by saying that, based on all I’ve learned about Captain Fallbrook, we may remove him as a suspect. I don’t believe he is connected in any way to his uncle’s death. Were you to meet the captain again today as a grown man, I know you would like him.
In my last letter, I told you about the documents I translated for the captain, along with my suspicions. Captain Fallbrook has relayed to me that his solicitor, Mr. Latimer, insists that the investment in the German railway company is sound and will provide an excellent return in time. Mr. Latimer said he has never met the financiers of the project, but his father did some years ago and, before his passing, encouraged his son to get involved in what he believed was an exciting opportunity. Mr. Latimer has received written assurances from the company that excellent progress is being made on the railway line. Unfortunately—and rather frustratingly—he has misplaced that correspondence. So he can provide no proof.
I still think it possible that the railroad scheme was a fraud. If I am right, and if Sir Thomas found out, it isn’t out of the question that one of the financiers would wish to keep him quiet. They could have come to England, done their nefarious deed, and vanished like the wind—or sent or hired someone to do it for them.
I intend to write to the company myself and make inquiries. In the meantime, I feel certain that Sir Thomas’s journal will shed light on the matter. I made a thorough search of the captain’s study the other night but found nothing. I shall go through the house room by room, if need be, to find that diary, even though I must do it all by stealth. Captain Fallbrook thinks the idea is folly.
Speaking of the captain, I am frustrated by his lack of connection with Miss Fallbrook. They live in the same house yet rarely see each other, except when he escorts her to church by coach or on horseback. Determined to improve this relationship, I organized an outing yesterday after church—a picnic. Miss Fallbrook was excited by the prospect. She idolizes her cousin, although she would never admit it. He maintained that he had no time for such a diversion, but after a bit of powerful persuading on my part, he gave in.
Our cook was away at the time, visiting a friend, and a temporary replacement was performing her duties. I ordered a basket of picnic delicacies (all my favorites and yours): cold chicken, hardboiled eggs, cheese, bread, pickles, and lemon tarts. A few clouds had gathered, but we felt confident it would not rain. I chose a pretty spot in the garden where we laid out a blanket to enjoy the feast.
Everything went wrong. It turns out Miss Fallbrook won’t eat hardboiled eggs, Captain Fallbrook doesn’t like cold chicken, they both hate pickles, and neither is fond of lemon tarts. If only our cook had been here, she could have warned me about their preferences! We ate bread and cheese in awkward silence. Every time I tried to start a conversation, it led nowhere. They have no clue how to talk to each other.
I admit, the captain made a feeble attempt: he asked Miss Fallbrook if she liked boys. The girl turned beet red and looked as though she wanted to die on the spot. What an awkward question for an older male relative to pose! Could he not have asked about her horse or seashell collection? Thankfully, he dropped the subject and doesn’t seem to be in league with the dreadful Professor Vaughan, who insists that we not bother with Miss Fallbrook’s education and marry her off at the earliest possible juncture.
We had only been picnicking for about an hour when the sky darkened, and a sudden, hard rain poured down. We gathered everything up and made a run for it. By the time we’d reached the house, we were all drenched to the bone and we went our separate ways .
Oh, Mrs. Phillips! Everything I have tried to do lately seems to fail. What does that say about me? The picnic was a fiasco. Despite my best efforts, Miss Fallbrook still struggles with the alphabet. I discovered a new possible lead in Sir Thomas’s case, but the captain dismissed it outright. Still, I shan’t give up. I promised you to make inroads on these last two fronts, and I shall make good on that vow.
I send you a heart full of love and wishes for your improved health. I look forward to your reply more than I can say.
With all my love, your goddaughter,
Diana
Rose Cottage, Yorkshire
Dearest Diana,
I am sorry your picnic did not turn out as you had hoped. May I say, however, that your description of the event was most amusing. One day, I trust you will be able to look back on it and laugh as heartily as I did.
In the meantime, reflect on this: things rarely go as we plan or expect. When life’s circumstances are not what we wish them to be, we have no alternative but to make the best of what is . We might be obliged to change our thinking and move in a new direction—and that is all right. For if we stand still in one place too long, we might find ourselves stuck at that point forever.
I know you went to Cornwall as a favor to me—you could surely have found gainful employment closer to home—and I am grateful for all you are doing. But something you said in your last letter troubles me. You wrote:
“Everything I have tried to do lately seems to fail. What does that say about me?”
You must cease this kind of thinking, Diana. I believe you will solve the mystery of my brother’s death. I believe you will find a way to help Emma learn to read. Even if you don’t, you are putting in the effort, which is all that matters. I perceive that my niece and nephew have already benefitted from your presence. If you are not yet making the progress you desire, perhaps you might reexamine your methods.
What do I mean by this? Indulge me when I say: I have been watching you these many years, my dearest, and here is what I have observed: ever since your mother passed away, you have been the responsible child, the compulsive server. You stepped into your mother’s shoes and never took them off. Your father came to rely on you to run the house and take care of your brother and sisters. Oh! How I wish I could have been of more help in those early years, but I had my own responsibilities, and you lived so many miles distant.
At such a young age, you took your duties in stride, and they became second nature to you. But I wonder now if it wasn’t an unhealthy thing. For today, you seem to measure your self-worth only in terms of what you can achieve for others, determined that they should benefit from your experience and advice.
But did it ever occur to you to ask Emma and the captain what they might prefer to eat, rather than devising a picnic menu of your own favorites? Did you bother to ask if they even liked the idea of a picnic? Perhaps they would rather do something else!
Everyone, I believe, has a valuable and accurate inner guide. Let people think for themselves and make their own choices. Step back and listen more. You might be surprised at what you hear. I hope you will not take offense at what I have said but rather, take it in the light in which it is intended: one loving heart speaking to another and wishing you only the best.
You asked about my health, but as I have run out of room, I will only say, every day is a bit harder than the one before, but I am doing the best I can. Pray forgive my penmanship—my hand is not as steady as it once was.
I send you hugs, kisses, and thanks over the miles. Do write again soon. I eagerly await every new revelation.
I love you dearly,
Eliza Phillip s
Diana finished reading the letter and heaved a frustrated sigh.
She appreciated Mrs. Phillips’s good intentions. But her godmother lived hundreds of miles away. She had not seen Miss Fallbrook since she’d been very young, and she had never even met the captain. How could she know the best course of action for Diana to take?
The very nature of Diana’s position required her to manage things for Miss Fallbrook. She couldn’t leave important decisions up to a fifteen-year-old girl. As for the picnic—everyone liked picnics. The idea that Diana ought to have bothered a busy man like Captain Fallbrook about menu choices—it was ridiculous. She had wanted to surprise him and Miss Fallbrook with a lovely afternoon. It was not her fault that they were so picky about what they ate, or that the cook who knew their tastes had been away at the time.
Her godmother had meant well, but she was off the mark. People often had difficulty making decisions. It was Diana’s duty to provide a guiding hand. It fed her soul to be of assistance to others. And how else was she to make amends for neglecting her mother in her hour of need?
Diana studied the letter again, this time, though, with rising worry. Mrs. Phillips’s handwriting was shakier than in the past. In some sections, it was almost illegible. Clear signs of her failing health.
“Every day is a bit harder than the one before.”
Tears pricked Diana’s eyes. The clock was ticking much too fast.
The answer was not to step back.
To achieve her goals, Diana must work even harder.
*
To test her theory about the German railway scheme, Diana wrote to Franke and Dietrich, introducing herself as a woman of means temporarily residing in Cornwall, and giving the Portwithys post office as her return address. She explained that she had heard about the financial rewards of the project from Mr. Latimer. Would they please reply at their earliest opportunity with details of the investment?
When Diana posted the letter in the village, she asked Mrs. Beardsley if she recalled Sir Thomas corresponding with a company called Franke and Dietrich a couple of years ago.
“He did,” Mrs. Beardsley affirmed. “Letters went back and forth for quite a while.”
“Do you remember if, perchance, a gentleman—or gentlemen—from Germany visited this area about four months ago, around the time that Sir Thomas died?”
“I can’t say that I recall anyone of that description. We don’t get many people here from abroad.”
“What about strangers from this country?” Diana prodded, believing that Franke and Dietrich could have sent money and hired a local person to commit the deed. “Did you see anyone unfamiliar in Portwithys at the time? A rough-looking man, perhaps?”
The postmistress pursed her lips, as if thinking, and then shook her head. “No, miss. Not that I recall, anyway. Why do you ask?”
Diana gave a quick shrug. “Just curious, that’s all. Thank you.” As she left the shop, she felt Mrs. Beardsley’s inquiring gaze on her.
Diana made a similar inquiry in the pub, the inn, and the bakery. No one remembered a visitor from Germany nor an outsider at all at the time, either of whom would surely have been an object of curiosity in Portwithys.
She left the village disappointed.
Her theory was beginning to sound less and less likely.