Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The amount of logistical planning required to enter Mrs. Dowell’s bedchamber is unfathomable!
To ensure her room is empty for an allotted span of time—ideally, twenty minutes, though fifteen would be acceptable—I have to recruit my maid’s assistance.
To do that, I need to devise a plausible explanation, and as she dresses my hair, I consider several fictions, the most promising of which is claiming the other woman stole my earrings.
No, that is inane.
Annie cares for my jewelry and would know the pair are not missing because she is the one who returned them to their cast last night.
Hmm.
What about a present?
Does the idea of my sneaking into Mrs. Dowell’s bedchamber to deliver a gift sound plausible?
Possibly.
The answer would depend, I suppose, on what the offering is.
As Annie winds a ribbon through my hair, I try to decide what I would give Mrs. Dowell and find my thoughts quickly diverted to the game I invented the evening before.
It had been enjoyable, thoroughly enjoyable and genteel.
A thoroughly enjoyable and genteel pastime should become a sensation among the beau monde.
But it would need a name, would it not?
Society cannot demand the thing if they cannot identify it.
A derivation of hy spy, it could be called—
No, I think firmly, refusing to allow the distraction.
Mrs. Dowell is an excellent suspect, as her status as a visitor makes it far less likely that someone in the household would recognize the shawl.
I must come up with a pretext.
Ten minutes later, I decide I do not need a pretext and tell Annie the truth. Being caught in a lie by my maid is worse than having her know that my disrespect for my hosts extends to invading their privacy.
Hearing that I have resolved to find Mr. Keast’s killer despite risking great personal cost convinces Annie that my intentions are noble. “Not that I would think you wish Mrs. Dowell ill just because she has been mean to you and Mrs. Hyde-Clare. I know you would never seek petty revenge.”
Touched by the tribute, which I am not sure is entirely accurate—I might sometimes seek pretty revenge—I thank her for the faith and suggest that she ask the other maid for her assistance in sewing up a tear in my dress.
Dismayed, Annie gasps, for she has not noticed any imperfections in my clothing, and when I explain that the rent has not yet been made, she says she will request help in acquiring components to remove a stain, such as lemon juice and tallow.
Although fetching those items would not ordinarily take twenty minutes, belowstairs is in chaos on account of the window in the music room, which had been left open on Tuesday night.
“The rain poured into the room and damaged the rug. Nobody will admit to it, so Mrs. Jackson is interrogating the staff one by one, which has created disorder. Everyone is up in arms over it. I ate three muffins at breakfast because nobody was paying attention to me.”
Although I am surprised to discover that anything under Mrs. Holcroft’s remarkably efficient management falls short of pristine, I am grateful for the distraction and discuss timing with Annie.
Casting a glance at the clock, I ask if she could arrange for the distraction at ten o’clock.
“That gives you a half hour to figure out how you want to do it.”
“I don’t need a half hour, miss,” she says.
With a wry smile, I say, “Ah, but I do.”
Next, I seek out Mama, who is not as biddable as my maid. When she insists on sticking as close to me as a nettle, I am forced to manipulate Russell into saving me.
Well, not quite forced.
I have other options, but slyly bending my brother to my will is among my favorite activities, especially because he refuses to believe it is possible.
Ten years later and he still insists he memorized the Sanskrit alphabet out of a curiosity about the language, and not because he thought I was learning it to impress our father.
The first thing I do is ask Mama if she is sure she feels all right.
All three of us are in the morning room, enjoying another cup of tea as the clock strikes ten o’clock.
Sunlight, a rare commodity in recent days, pours in through the eastern exposure, and as I pull the needle through my embroidery frame, I wonder if she should have gone with the Holcroft sisters to call on the vicar and his sister.
“I think you could have done with the fresh air,” I say. “You are looking a little wan.”
Mama startles.
Wan is the description she uses to describe Bea’s complexion, and the thought of bearing her niece’s pallidness unsettles her.
“All you need is a little sunshine, does she not, Russell?” I ask my brother, who is sitting next to me on the settee with the Country Register, which he is pretending to read.
I know it is an affect because he has not turned the page in a half hour.
“Perhaps you should have gone to call on the vicarage with the Holcroft sisters. It is not very far away, only a mile, and a walk can be invigorating. Or maybe a stroll around the park while the weather is clement. What we have seen of the park is lovely. If you are willing to give me another hour to finish this section of the design, I shall accompany you. We do not want to wait too long, or it will grow warm. I shall try to embroider faster so we can enjoy the fresh air as soon as possible and leave Russell to his newspaper. No doubt he wishes us to perdition so that he can enjoy his reading in silence.”
Mama owns herself content to wait for me, but her eyes stray longingly to the window, where the leaves of the tall trees dapple the sun on the ground.
Swearing softly, I curse my clumsiness and announce with frustration that I must undue the last few stitches.
“I am sorry, but they are in the wrong place. Here, Russell, why do you not entertain us with the latest gossip. What does the County Register have to say about the most recent gathering at the local assembly hall? I trust it was well attended. Does it say what color dress Miss Nutting wore? Or is that topic too frivolous? We are happy to hear about soil composition and harvest calendars, are we not, Mama? Anything to help pass the time until our walk. I do wish I were better at embroidery. Then we would be on our way and cease to pester my poor brother.”
Although I am prepared to make a half dozen comments regarding the tedious contents of the newspaper, it is not necessary.
Tossing the offending broadsheet to the side, Russell rises to his full height and says it would be a crime to waste another minute of the beautiful day by lingering inside.
“I shall take you for a walk, Mama, as you are far more important than any periodical.”
Our mother coos in reply.
After they leave, I ply my needle for another five minutes to make sure they do not immediately return and the morning room is empty.
Once I am confident they are gone, I stuff my embroidery into the basket and dash upstairs to deposit my belongings in my own bedchamber before continuing to the family wing.
Mrs. Dowell’s rooms are located at the far end of the hallway, and I proceed cautiously along the corridor, keenly aware that any of the quarters may be occupied by members of the staff.
A maid might be sweeping a fireplace or a footman delivering coal.
The risk I am taking is monumental.
If anyone discovers me rifling through Mrs. Dowell’s belongings, I am sunk.
The Hyde-Clares will be tossed out on their ears.
Unless it is a servant who is receptive to material compensation in exchange for their silence. Then I might be able to wiggle off the hook.
Except what did I have to offer of significant value? My most treasured possessions are sentimental, from the opal ring my grandmother left me to the cerulean silk that makes my eyes sparkle, and I have very little pin money.
To satisfy a bribe, I would have to apply to my father, which would almost be as wretched as expulsion from the premises.
Obviously, the best outcome all around is not to get caught.
To that end, I am relieved to see Mrs. Dowell’s door is open, because I can observe at a glance that Annie has accomplished her task: The lady’s maid is absent.
Eagerly, I step across the threshold, partially closing the door behind me, and dash to the escritoire.
All I need is a brief sample—a few lines is sufficient—and the letter lying on the writing table is perfect, as it is several paragraphs long.
My heart races with the thrill of discovery and the terror of confirmation.
Once I know, I will never be able to unknow.
Silently, I offer an apology to Sebastian and place Eternally Devoted’s final missive next to his sister’s letter to make the side-by-side comparison.
I am almost incapable of breath as I notice the similarity in the slant of the letters.
Elegant and tight, the words tilt forward in tandem, and I am astounded to realize my theory is correct.
The moment Mrs. Dowell threw the playing slips into the fire, I had a very strong suspicion, and yet it is dizzying to actually see it con—
The capital D is missing a loop.
Eternally Devoted curled the swirl at the top left of the letter so fulsomely, it formed a second loop outside the letter.
Mrs. Dowell’s d does not have the same affectation, and none of her lowercase i’s are dotted. They are all abrupt little lines with no corresponding mark.
The writers are not one and the same.
I am struck by a baffling combination of disappointment and relief. Her innocence is good—I do not want Sebastian’s sister to be a ruthless killer—and yet it means I must proceed with my investigation, increasing the risk to myself by pursuing further suspects.
Sarah is next.
Her bedchamber is just across the hall.