Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Nate opened his eyes as his valet entered his room, carrying his tea. Bennett set the cup down next to his bed with a “Morning, sir,” and then drew back the curtains, allowing the sun to stream into the room.
Nate stretched, sat up in bed, and reached for his cup. “Is it done, Bennett?” he asked before taking a sip.
“It’s done, sir,” Bennett replied.
Nate took another satisfying sip of tea before putting it down.
Then he threw off his covers and waited for Bennett to help him into his robe before he went to the window.
When he’d first come to live at Villa De Lacey, he’d only had one goal in mind, and that was to return to London.
He thought he’d never be happy living anywhere else.
But Westmorland, with its pristine lakes, lush green landscape, and high fells, had won him over.
Moreover, country life had turned him from a late riser into an early lark.
Now, the idea of not seeing the magnificent Lake Windermere upon waking every morning was unthinkable.
But this morning, his gaze fell directly to the garden and the place where the daffodils had been.
The beautiful sea of yellow flowers had been pulled out of the ground from their roots, and the soil smoothed over like a mass grave.
He sighed. The sight hurt him, but it was for the best.
“Thomas and Fred must have started before dawn to get everything finished this early,” Nate spoke his thoughts out loud. “It’s a shame, but it’s what had to be done.”
“You did right, sir,” Bennett said. “All kinds were trespassing on your land to come and gawk.”
With Bennett’s assistance, Nate washed and dressed for the day. As the valet buttoned his waistcoat, a great hue and cry sounded in the distance.
“Good Lord, has it started already? I thought we could at least wait until after breakfast.”
“Shall I see what it’s all about, sir?”
“I think I know what it’s about. It’s Colonel Kendall, no doubt. Discipline from his army days made him an early riser. I don’t believe he has a view of the garden from his room, so he must have only just ventured outside and seen the daffodils.”
“Shall I go and speak with him, sir?”
Nate sighed. “It’s best I do it. Fetch my jacket.”
When Nate stepped out of his room, he almost ran into Bridget, whose face looked creased with worry. “It’s Mr. Angert,” she said. “It sounds like he has taken the loss of the daffodils very badly.”
“Indeed,” Nate said. He could hear the artist shouting expletives in his heavy German accent coming from downstairs.
Just then Colonel Kendall came out of his room, fully dressed and ready for the day. “I say, what’s going on? I was enjoying my morning tea and newspaper when someone started screaming like a lunatic.” He glanced toward the stairs. “Good heavens! It’s coming from down there.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Angert is simply a bit upset. I shall see to it.”
Lady Armstrong peeked out from behind her chamber door. “What’s all that racket?” she asked. Then, before Nate had a chance to answer, she opened the door and shoved Miss Jennings out, saying, “Go and tell whoever’s making that noise to be quiet!”
Miss Jennings stood by the door, looking bewildered.
Then, Angert, himself, came rushing up the stairs in his robe. His face was purple with rage. “Monsters! Savages!” he cried. “Who would do such a thing? I ask you! Who?”
“Calm down, Mr. Angert. It’s only a few daffodils.”
“Only a few daffodils?” the man thundered. “What are you talking about? It’s my work. My art. Someone has murdered my art!”
Doors opened, and the guests, most still in their robes, peeked out of their rooms. “Did someone say murder?” Mr. Harley asked, and the rest of the guests gasped.
“No one has been murdered.” Nate held up his hands in a calming gesture. “There’s nothing to worry about. Just a minor mishap. You can go back to bed.” Then he turned to Angert and said, “I told you yesterday, Mr. Angert, you can make more art. There’s plenty of…”
“More art!” Angert leapt forward like a crazed animal and grabbed Nate by his jacket. “You dare to destroy my art and tell me to make more?” His pale blue eyes bulged in their sockets as if his head were about to explode.
“Mr. Angert”—Nate removed the man’s hands from his lapels—“calm down!” He smoothed his jacket. “I had my gardener take out the daffodils on the lawn because it is the site of a murder—a gruesome, tragic murder—and you and Colonel Kendall were making a spectacle of it.”
“I say”—Colonel Kendall stepped forward—“have you removed the daffodils? That was uncalled for. One doesn’t remove a battlefield because soldiers died on it. No! One goes there and relives the great moments of history.”
“The daffodils?” Angert blinked. “You think I’m speaking of daffodils?” He spat out the words. “Those daffodils are imprinted in my brain. I can paint them from memory. But to destroy my art—my paintings—was unforgivable!”
Nate heard Bridget gasp beside him.
“Destroy your paintings? Whatever are you talking about?” Nate asked.
“My paintings! Someone slashed them with a knife. They’re ruined, I tell you. Ruined!”
“Good grief!” Bridget cried.
“Come see for yourself.” Angert raced back down the stairs, crying, “Savages, murderers,” as he went. Nate, Bridget, and a host of others followed him to his chamber.
“Do you see!” The man fell to his knees on the floor of his chamber and howled like a mother grieving for her babe. “All my beauties, ruined. The entire collection—gone!”
Nate entered the suite and froze. It was exactly as Angert had said. Someone had taken a knife to his daffodil paintings, slicing through each canvas multiple times and destroying them beyond repair.
Several guests crowded into Angert’s room, their faces aghast. Suddenly, Miss Jennings let out a single high-pitched squeal.
Everyone turned to look at her. Another shrill sound escaped her throat.
She put her hand over her mouth but could not stifle the growing feeling—be it excitement or nerves—that was building inside her, and she broke out into hysterical laughter.
“How dare you?” Angert sputtered with rage.
It was obvious that the poor woman could not stop herself from laughing.
“Stop it!” Angert shouted. “Stop it, at once!” He advanced on the woman, and Nate quickly stepped in front of him.
“Now, Angert, control yourself.”
“Control? Me? Are you mad?” He blustered. “It is she who—”
A sharp slap sounded, and the laughing ended abruptly. Nate turned to see Lady Matheson glaring down at Miss Jennings, who held her hand to her bright red cheek. She stared at Lady Matheson with a look of utter horror.
“She was hysterical,” Lady Matheson said. “Her shrieking was rattling my nerves. Someone had to do something.”
“What sort of a place is this?” Angert said, eyeing the guests. “Which one of you destroyed my paintings?”
“Perhaps none of us did it, Mr. Angert,” Lady Matheson said, her voice sounding savage. “Mayhap it was George.”
“George? He is dead.”
“Have you ever heard of a vengeful spirit?” she asked. “I’d destroy what’s left of those if I were you,” she said, and then she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Angert staring after her.
Miss Jennings, apparently emerging from her state of shock, suddenly dashed from the room.
Bridget ran out after her. Lady Matheson had had no right to hit her, no matter how upset she’d been.
“Miss Jennings,” Bridget called as she followed the woman outside and into the garden with Bijou at her heels. “Wait, please!”
The woman kept running but then came to an abrupt stop in front of the uprooted daffodils. Bridget slowed her gait and approached Miss Jennings cautiously. “I’m so sorry for what Lady Matheson did to you,” she said. “It was uncalled for. She had no right.”
Miss Jennings put a hand to her cheek. “Well, it’s not the first time a lady has slapped me. I seem to try the patience of my betters.”
“Don’t say that. They are not your betters. You have just as much right to be treated with dignity as they do.”
“That’s what Geor—Mr. Otis used to say whenever Lady Armstrong mistreated me.” She gave her a half smile.
“Were you very fond of Mr. Otis?” Bridget asked.
“He was kind to me. Few people have been in my life. I seem to be one of those people who are always in the way of others, so I try to stay quiet and go unnoticed, but Mr. Otis—well, he noticed me. He talked to me and asked my opinion—no one ever does—did—that.” She blinked furiously and Bridget knew she was trying to stop tears from falling.
“I liked him too. He was a dear friend.” Bridget paused. “And I do hope you and I can be friends.”
“I should like that. I miss my walks with Mr. Otis.” She stifled her laugh with her hand. “Do you know, I’d give Lady Armstrong a pinch of laudanum, a few minutes before I was due to meet Mr. Otis. She would have never allowed me out of her sight otherwise.”
Bridget felt a niggling in her stomach. It came as a warning.
Then she pushed it aside. Would she have acted any differently were she under the thumb of a woman like Lady Armstrong?
Probably not. Miss Jennings had limited choices, and if someone was keeping one as a caged pet and curtailing one’s freedom, then one had no choice but to steal it back.
*
“It had to be Rupert and Charlie,” Nate said, once he and Bridget were alone in the garden.
“That’s rather unfair,” Bridget said.
“It’s the only logical explanation. Those pictures were painful to look at—even for me—can you imagine how horrible they must have been for Rupert and Charlie?
And to think, Angert was selling them. People in town have miniatures in their pockets and on their walls.
I hardly blame them for doing it, but I cannot condone such behavior at my inn. ”
“But you have no proof,” Bridget said.