Chapter 1 #2
I ran my mind through the list of suspects as we walked down the hallway, always gloomy at this time of the day because Lady Catherine did not approve of afternoon sunlight on the complexion.
I did not really suspect the servants. Not only were many of them aged retainers who had been with the family for many decades, but the others were frightened of Mrs. McGregor.
So clearly the visitors were most under suspicion.
Not only did Lady Catherine have her usual family solicitor, a young man named Mr. Harold Crawford who had taken over the business from his father, but two of Anne de Bourgh’s suitors were also visiting for Christmas.
As we walked in, we saw Miss Anne de Bourgh on one couch, with Mr. Montagu Radcliff and Sir Francis Honeyfield on the other.
My husband William strode up to Anne and gave her a deep bow as well. “Such countenance on your face today, Miss de Bourgh! I declare, there is a certain sweetness on your face that passes everything! What a privilege for us to be able to sit in your presence.”
Lady Catherine hmphed approvingly beside me. She loved praise of her only child Anne, and my husband, nervously grateful for her beneficent goodness to him, was only too happy to provide it.
We sat for some minutes, the tea getting cold, as my husband elaborated enthusiastically on the delicate quality of the furnishings in the room, the little cakes waiting for us, and Anne’s new dress.
My husband didn’t exactly know muslin, but there was nothing wrong with the dress.
There was, however, something wrong with Anne, and it worried me.
Looking at her in contrast to my buoyant, ruddy-cheeked husband was startling.
Anne was tiny and thin, with a pale, shy face.
Although she had big circles under her eyes, she had a pretty face, even if it looked shockingly faded for such a young woman.
I wondered what was wrong with her. Lady Catherine spoke of her sickly nature almost as if it was a point of pride, but I had long wondered if there was anything that could be done.
Of course, it might be natural to be shy with such a strong, dominating mother.
As usual, once Mr. Collins had taken a breath and bowed his way to a seat beside me, Lady Catherine took up the conversational mantle and began to discourse on her disapproval of the new farming methods.
I took this opportunity to examine Anne’s two suitors more closely. She was a very wealthy heiress, and such would always attract fortune-hunters.
Mr. Montagu Radcliff was a thickly muscled man in his early 30s with wavy chocolate hair and a chiseled, handsome face.
He was the son of a very well-off gentleman who had recently retired from trade.
Mr. Radcliff was well-dressed, and, from what I gathered, one of the sporting bloods of London’s set.
He was also very well-educated and looked every bit the rakish gentleman.
His manners were absolutely impeccable, but there was still something I didn’t like about him.
He was a little too ready for his lips to linger over what should be a quick kiss on the hand.
Not over my hand, of course, since I was a plump, plain matron and wife of a clergyman. But I saw how his lips lingered over Anne’s hand.
Sir Francis Honeyfield was the youngest son of a very minor and impecunious branch of Nobility. I had no doubt that Lady Catherine would not have remotely entertained him without those all-important first few letters before his name.
He was a slim man of medium height, with bright blonde hair, pale lashes, pale goggly blue eyes, and a foolish expression on his face.
To his credit, he was also good-natured, and never seemed to mind Mr. Radcliffe’s jokes and jabs at his expense, even though I wondered if they would put his status with Anne at risk.
I had almost forgotten Mr. Harold Crawford as he sat quietly on an uncomfortable-looking chair near Anne, but he seemed like a quiet man, tall and thin, with neat brown hair and one untidy lock that kept falling into his face in an appealing manner.
His face looked kind, but I had to steel myself to suspect anyone who wasn’t normally at Rosings.
Therefore, I tried to engage each man in conversation, or as much as I could with Lady Catherine explaining how much the glazing had cost her late husband Sir Lewis de Bourgh, and William joining enthusiastically in to praise each aspect of it as the most exemplary artistry.
I asked both men what they most enjoyed about Kent, and Sir Francis said “the fowling” at the same time that Mr. Radcliffe said “the company of Miss Anne de Bourgh.”
Sir Francis sputtered at the very obvious march Mr. Radcliffe had stolen on him, and cried out hotly that he had meant to say Anne all along. A nasty spat appeared to be brewing, which Mr. Crawford cleverly smoothed over by asking my husband about his Christmas sermon.
Soon it was only William’s clear, overpowering voice that could be heard, and I sighed, letting my mind wander for a moment as I wondered how exactly I was going to solve this mystery.