Chapter 12 #2
Sorcha paused at the top of the steps. The children were already across the foyer and out on the terrace. “We can ask, but she’ll have a reasonable answer and be mortally offended at our questioning. I need her, Bernard, and an insulted nurserymaid is one step away from giving notice.”
“Very well. We won’t question her directly. That leaves two other people, at least. The Greer governess, whom I have no reason to suspect, and Cousin Coraline, who did everything in her power to stop and then delay the search for Jordy.”
He spoke so calmly, and for the first time, Sorcha resented his self-possession. “A gentleman does not speak ill of a lady, much less a lady who is a member of his family. You will embarrass Jordy if you insist on pursuing this, Bernard.”
“A little boy for whom I am responsible was put in harm’s way, Sorcha, and that displaces every gentlemanly scruple I ever aspired to.”
Sorcha walked away from him, out onto the terrace. Bernard trailed her at a polite—prudent—distance.
“I love my son,” she said, going to the balustrade. “He can be mendacious. For all we know, Jordy pulled the lid closed on himself and is making up this business of footsteps to preserve his pride.”
“Jordy is afraid of the dark. He would not have pulled the lid closed on himself.” Offered gently, but not apologetically.
Bernard was kind and polite and very dear, also capable of relentless determination that might in some context be called pigheadedness.
“I’m sorry, Bernard, but I cannot believe Coraline would do such a thing and then prolong Jordan’s misery.”
“Prolong his danger, Sorcha. An oat bin is designed to be as airtight as possible. Not quite up to Royal Navy standards, but solid. Jordy might well have suffocated in that oat bin.”
No. No. No. And yet… Sorcha refrained from outright argument. Bernard was the last person to indulge in wild notions or to malign another without reason. He was upset, with some justification, and now was not the time to antagonize him.
“I promise I will supervise the children directly for the rest of the afternoon, Bernard. Would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Go back to the stable. Do as you asked the girls to do: Look for any signs that indicate somebody else was in that space. I will do likewise—smudges on gloves, dust on hems, that sort of thing. We will discuss this further, but right now, we are exchanging opinions when we might be discussing evidence. I will keep the children in sight while you investigate the supposed crime scene.”
Give him something to do, give him time. He was a reasonable man who’d calm down soon enough.
“I understand.” He bowed formally. “Your servant, my lady.” Sorcha watched him bounding down the steps, all male vitality aimed at a worthy goal and wished she could turn the clock of her life back one hour to when she’d felt sweet and sleepy and safe in Bernard’s embrace.
She was instead relieved to see his departure, and that did not bode well for anybody’s foolish dreams.
“Coraline claims she was reading a book in the conservatory when Jordy was assaulted,” Bernard said. “Gilchrist was on the terrace, chatting with the Greer governess throughout. One wants to shake Coraline and to blazes with her condescending dismissal of a potentially serious situation.”
“I did wonder.” St. Didier poured two drinks at the sideboard. “Your health.” He passed one over, and such was Bernard’s agitation that he did not refuse even for form’s sake.
“And yours, St. Didier. Also little Jordy’s. A more blameless child has not been born. What did you wonder about?”
St. Didier took a wing chair and gestured to its twin.
Bernard did not care to lounge at his ease in one of St. Didier’s diabolically comfortable chairs.
He would rather have downed his nightcap at one go, marched over to the Greer household, and put the fear of dissembling into Cousin Coraline.
He’d had forty-eight hours to ponder Jordy’s latest mishap, and he’d grown more upset the longer he ruminated.
Let not the sun go down on your wrath was all well and good for exhorting the Ephesians, but of no earthly use to at least one agitated Yorkshireman.
“One wondered,” St. Didier said, “how you’d react when excellent manners, exquisite gentlemanly consideration, and polite discourse didn’t resolve all difficulties.
You cannot go about shaking other men’s wives, Huxley.
Behavior like that will get you called out, and Greer will be a passably good shot. ”
“While my own aim approaches perfection. Because Yorkshire suffers a paucity of leisure activities for unmarried parsons, I am also competent with a foil, épée, the Old Testament, the Gospels, and the Stoics. Lady Barclay wants to believe one of the younger cousins played a prank and did not realize the consequences of her actions.”
She not only wanted to believe that, she did believe it, and Bernard was at a loss how to convince her otherwise.
“Huxley, compose yourself. Have a seat. Consume the brandy—don’t merely hold it while you brandish your figurative fist at Coraline. Who else was present?”
Bernard sipped. He sat. He set down his drink.
“I cannot be sure. Lady Barclay’s coachman claims the lot of them—coachies, grooms, footmen from both households and all three coaches—went into the village to enjoy a pint and a pie and to collect the local gossip.
Tallister Greer was not among our party, but I have no idea of his whereabouts.
The Greer groom remained behind in case the family chose to depart, in which case he was to summon his mates.
I haven’t been able to question each man individually, though I’d like to. ”
“Right. Because every man in service knows that when some irritated toff comes around demanding answers to incriminating questions, the best strategy is always to peach on one’s mates, to deliver up the good fellows one has worked with for years to the tender mercies of the beadle.”
I am not a toff. “That is part of the reason I haven’t asked those questions, though please note, the Greer groom is notably diminutive. A former jockey, and thus a man who leaves small footprints.”
That much had been obvious about O’Malley from a distance. “While I am certain I could best Greer in a fair fight,” Bernard went on, “I might not survive a mauling in the court of public opinion if I offend Coraline. She can start rumors that would wreck a business Camden spent years building.”
She could also cast slurs on the widowed Lady Barclay, though she’d be careful about it, lest the talk redound to Annette’s eventual discredit.
“I thought Coraline was trying to toss Annette into your lonely arms?”
“My arms are not lonely, and I will thank you to cease jesting. The whole situation vexes me exceedingly. Would you be averse to taking her ladyship and the children to Yorkshire? Camden and his baroness could accommodate half a regiment at the ancestral pile, and Jordy and Bridget will adore having playmates.”
The subtle air of patient bemusement faded from St. Didier’s expression. “Are you taking a bump on the head too seriously, Huxley?”
“Not simply a bump on the head. Last summer, on a similar outing to Mirobello, Jordy’s saddle slipped, and he came off his pony. The pony was a hack sent out by the local livery, but the Greers were present en masse, with attendants.”
St. Didier ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “I’d forgotten about the fat pony.”
“The fat, round pony. Have you also forgotten about last week’s bellyaches following Sunday supper at the Greers?”
“No, but children overeat, and bellyaches follow.”
“Both children?”
St. Didier scowled at the fire. “You were an only child, Huxley. Afflictions in the nursery can be contagious or even competitive. One child is afraid of the dark, and suddenly, they all are. One child takes shortbread into dislike, and shortbread must be stricken from the menu, until the next child declares it to be the best treat ever.”
I will never deliver another sermon in my life. “St. Didier, since when are you, who have no offspring, the oracle of the nursery? Both children cast up their accounts.”
“The aroma of illness—”
“I removed Jordy from the coach, away from Lady Barclay and Bridget. He was sick outside the coach. Aromas didn’t come into it.” Fisticuffs well might, if St. Didier didn’t cease his tut-tutting.
But then, St. Didier was on a first-name basis with Sorcha. He would naturally take her part.
“You removed young Jordan from the coach?”
“To be ill in front of his mother and sister would have mortified the boy past all bearing. Of course I hauled him from the vehicle. Bridget, by contrast, was horrified to think the neighbors had seen her indisposed. I should have anticipated that.”
St. Didier frowned at his drink, took a taste, and rose to toss another square of peat onto the fire. “I see.”
“What do you see?” Very likely, St. Didier saw a fool in love, which did not alter the facts at issue one iota.
“I see that I must organize my affairs such that I am available to escort her ladyship to a northern destination, the details of which I assume will not be disclosed to her family.”
“That will be up to Lady Barclay. My recommendation would be to plan a trip to Scotland—summer approaches, after all—and to detour to Yorkshire indefinitely and discreetly.”
“While you do what?”
Miss Sorcha and the children terribly. “Work. Ensure the Greers and their footmen, grooms, and familiars aren’t heading north.”
St. Didier finished his drink. “That is no sort of solution, Huxley. If you fear the child is in peril, for reasons nobody has yet disclosed to me, then you can’t expect Lady Barclay to kick her heels in Yorkshire until the Greers magically decamp for darkest Cornwall.”
Cornwall was far, far too good for the likes of Mr. and Mrs. Greer.