CHAPTER 18
The following morning, Julia nodded to the glazier fitting replacement glass into the front door panel at Blenheim Lodge.
“A temporary fix,” he said of the frosted pane, “until Miss Allingham orders another stained-glass window.”
Julia wondered what he knew. The morning newspapers had reported the death of Louisa, the widow of Charles Allingham. No other details had leaked to the press. At some point, the whole story would be part of the public record, but not yet.
The door was open, so Julia went inside.
The silent house displayed none of the conventional marks of a household in mourning.
Its window curtains stood open, and no black crepe shrouded the door knocker or the hall mirror.
Julia supposed the ghastly circumstances of Louisa’s death rendered those practices false.
Alfred appeared. The footman looked at Julia as if she were a fellow shipwreck survivor. The servant extended his hand and snatched it to his chest, remembering his place. Julia shifted her medical bag and grasped it.
“Did you sleep? You look to me as if you didn’t.”
He shook his head.
Julia had left a sleeping draught for Mary and wished she’d thought of him. Alfred had seen the worst of it, along with Mary and Will.
“I’ll leave you something, although you may not need it by tonight.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Is Miss Allingham awake?”
He nodded. “Miss Mary is in the morning room.”
Julia followed him into a bright, south-facing room. Mary had abandoned her coffee and plate of eggs and sat at the desk by the window. She had pen and paper to hand and an address book held open by a paperweight. But the page was blank, and she was staring into the back garden.
Alfred cleared his throat. “Doctor Lewis, Miss Mary.”
“Julia.” She seemed to shake herself awake and stood. “How kind. Alfred, will you bring Doctor Lewis a fresh pot and a cup?”
They moved across to the breakfast table and sat. “How did you sleep?”
“Deeply . . . and dreamlessly, thank God. But I’m having some difficulty focusing this morning.”
“An aftereffect of the sleeping draught. Another coffee and it will wear off.” Julia eyed the plate. “Not eating as well as you slept?”
Mary shook her head.
“You should try, but not this.” Julia carried the congealing eggs to the sideboard.
“Charles and I always ate here in the morning. The dining room is too formal and filled with mahogany.”
“A room with happy associations.”
“My . . . Louisa rarely joined us. She usually breakfasted in bed. But that desk was hers. She wrote all her letters and organized the household from it.”
“You were sitting there when I came in.”
“Yes . . . I must get over the idea that certain objects and rooms were hers if I’m to live here happily.” She considered and said, “I never liked the desk. All that Louis Quinze gilt and filigreed inlay.”
“Get rid of it. Buy something that is yours.”
“Yes.”
Julia nodded at the abandoned address book. “What task had you attempted?”
“Funeral arrangements. I was looking for . . .” Mary’s voice caught. “It seems too hideous to bury her with Charles.”
The servant returned with coffee. Mary said, “Thank you, Alfred,” in a steadier voice. After he closed the door, she poured and said, “I thought burial with her father at Highgate Cemetery would be best.”
“That sounds right.”
Mary replaced the pot and folded her arms. She stared down at her untouched cup. Julia let the silence stretch out.
“I wonder . . . I wonder if we’d talked about it more.
Louisa’s miscarriages. I tried, but not hard enough.
My brother was useless when it came to such things.
And Charles was the one . . .” Mary bit her lip.
“Louisa’s pain, her bitter disappointments.
. . they must have festered like an infection of the soul. ”
“I know a little about what you’re feeling, Mary. About the ache of not having aided someone you loved. I speak from experience. It takes time, and it helps to speak of it with someone you trust.”
“I’m lucky in my friendships. And Will. He’s upstairs, sleeping in my bedroom chair.
” Mary waved impatiently. “I couldn’t care less about appearances.
Such nonsense. But he . . .” She smiled.
“Silly man, there was plenty of room in my bed. But my last waking awareness was of him, sitting in the chair. And when I woke up, there he was. I tucked a blanket around him and came downstairs. Anyway, we are to be married soon.”
“That is happy news. Best wishes, and I congratulate Mister Quain.”
“I’m just glad that he asked—and I said yes—before Louisa . . .” Then Mary said in a rush, “I wouldn’t want him to think I was marrying him out of loneliness or gratitude or anything else. I love him and want to be his wife. That’s the simple truth.”
Julia smiled and said, “Simple. Now, tell me, what are your plans?”
“Last night, we talked it through. We’ll marry by special license. His father is an Anglican dean, so Will knows the Archbishop of Canterbury.” Mary laughed and said, “Isn’t that unlikely?”
Julia smiled. “A little.”
“With a special license from the archbishop, we won’t have to post the banns for three weeks and wait. We can leave for Paris almost immediately. We’re not running away. We’ll slip away and start over.”
Julia raised her coffee cup. “Here’s to simple truths—and to traveling new paths.”
* * *
At six o’clock on Wednesday evening, Julia and her Aunt Caroline were the first down to the drawing room. Her grandfather would follow soon, and they expected Dr. and Mrs. Franklin, her grandparents’ oldest friends, to arrive at seven thirty for their weekly dinner party.
That evening was the first time Julia had seen her aunt since Louisa’s death two days earlier.
“Mary Allingham, that poor child,” Lady Aldridge said. “But at least she’s found . . .” She roused herself. “How is that young assistant of yours faring? Doctor Barnes.”
“Very well, Aunt.”
“So, you don’t have to spend every waking minute at the clinic?”
“Well, I—”
“I lunched yesterday with the widows’ club.”
Her aunt’s changes of conversational direction were head-snapping, and Julia smiled at her nickname for the surviving wives of her late husband’s law colleagues.
“I can’t remember how,” her aunt said, “but that business involving Richard’s father came up. He was the lawyer in that financial scandal back in the fifties. The guilty banker absconded, but William Tennant remained to face the music, although the authorities exonerated him in the end.”
“I remember the story.”
“The ladies agreed. It was high time that nice man, his son, had a little luck with the women in his life.”
“Oh?”
“His mother was a . . . well, I won’t use that word, although ladies of a certain age who are old friends sometimes do. Let us say that Mrs. Tennant was not an amiable woman. Nor was Isobel.”
“Isobel?”
“Richard’s fiancée. Someone said she tossed him away in the middle of the scandal like a bad penny.”
“Aunt Caroline, I think—”
“You think too much, Julia. That is your trouble. You grew up amongst ancient relatives, and it’s given you an old head. Try feeling for a change, my dear.” She sighed. “My interference will not set you against him. You are too intelligent for such nonsense.”
Julia smiled. “You know I value your opinion, Aunt.”
“Well, listen to me now and think if you must. Think of it as fact-gathering and adding to your case notes. Observe the symptoms and reach the diagnosis that is obvious to me: Richard loves you.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am. The only question is this: What do you feel for him?”
“Aunt, you’ve hardly given me a chance to speak. I—” Julia broke off at the sound of a knock and looked at the clock. “It’s a little early for the Franklins.”
“Simple gifts, Julia,” her aunt said before the visitors arrived. “I shall ask Andrew to invite Mrs. Davies to play it once a week until its message sinks in.”
But Paddy O’Malley, and not the guests they expected, walked in with her grandfather.
“Sergeant, you know my sister, Lady Aldridge.”
“Sergeant O’Malley and I are old friends. Will you join me?” She lifted her glass. “It’s not Irish, I’m afraid, but it’s a lovely single malt from Scotland.”
“Thank you, Lady Aldridge. That’s grand.”
Julia poured and invited him to sit, so the sergeant eased into a chair.
“I have news, and the first is from the Yard.” O’Malley looked into his glass, and his jaw tightened. “The decision’s come down from on high. All the big fish will be slipping the net.”
Dr. Lewis gasped. “I can’t believe it. No prosecutions for the clubmen? After what they’ve done? It’s damnable.”
“No one’s paying any piper except the two fellas we caught in the act, thanks to Johnny Osborne. After his article, at least they’ll be explaining themselves to their wives and sweethearts. Doctor Scott, I’m thinking, is explaining to his Maker. But that’s all.”
“It’s not enough,” Julia said. “The chairman, this Reginald Bruce, surely—”
“Claiming ignorance, he is. Rawlings is a liar, and Allen has scarpered. It helps when your cousin is the ninth Earl of Elgin and your friend is the Prince of Wales.”
Lady Aldridge said, “Surely His Royal Highness had no part in this.”
“He dines at the Topkapi,” O’Malley said, “and runs with a fast crowd, but not as fast as the Harem.”
Julia asked, “What about Sidney Allen?”
“The Yard won’t exhaust itself over the chase. The creature would be shouting all the big names if they tried to prosecute.”
“And the little fish?” Lady Aldridge asked. “What happens to them?”
“Ah . . . interesting, that is. Yesterday, I’m hearing the Crown will dangle transportation to Australia. Seven years instead of a longer stretch in an English nick. Rawlings, Stackpole, and a few others we arrested will be jumping at the chance.”
“But I thought the government had halted transportations,” Dr. Lewis said.