Chapter Four #2
Marie scowled. He had been shockingly rude. At the slightest sign from Lady Mary, Marie would show him just how unfit she truly was to be a refined lady’s companion. She’d been told her tongue could blister the walls when her back was up.
Her mistress only dipped her chin and gave Mr. Platt a look over her spectacles. “My years have given me the wisdom to understand how severe the iniquity of taking another life truly is, and that all must endeavor to right such a wrong.”
Randall extended his leg, staring at the toe of his boot. “‘Nobody loves life like him that’s growing old.’ Or her.”
Marie frowned, not knowing the reference, but Lady Mary only chuckled. “If you wish to insult me, Mr. Randall, it will take more than quoting Sophocles. I take no offense at the truth. Now, let us return to Mr. Trent. Is there any reason someone would wish to harm him?”
“No,” both Mrs. Trent and her brother said in unison.
“It’s no use pretending your husband was a saint, Anna.” Randall shrugged. “Everyone has enemies.”
Marie pursed her lips. She didn’t think she had any enemies. It couldn’t possibly be true that everyone did. But mayhap that said more about what went on inside Mr. Randall’s mind than anything.
“What about that Hicks fellow?” Randall flicked a bit of lint from his trousers. “He was none too happy with Trent when we went to visit him. Yelling to take the rafters down.”
“Hicks who?” Marie made sure to shove that h in. Her vow to keep silent hadn’t lasted long. It never did with her.
Mr. Platt grimaced. “Fenton Hicks. He is, or was, Edwin’s manager at the canning factory.”
Lady Mary nodded. “I remember Trent’s father opening that factory. A new process of preserving food to send to our soldiers on the front lines, yes?”
“If you can call it food.” Mr. Platt wrinkled his nose. “Still, it’s quite profitable, the only reason our father allowed Anna to marry Trent. It certainly wasn’t for his breeding.”
“What were they fighting about?” Marie leant forward, resting her forearms on her knees. She caught Mr. Randall staring at the gape the motion produced at her bodice and jerked back upright.
Randall’s smile was languid, knowing. “Something about a position Trent had promised him but didn’t deliver on. One can only toy with the working class so long before they take their revenge.”
“And is that what you think happened?” Lady Mary asked. “That this Fenton Hicks killed Mr. Trent?”
Mr. Randall picked up a small crystal figurine of a swan from the table beside him. He tossed it from one hand to the other. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t take notice of Mr. Hicks after we left the factory.”
“When was this?” Lady Mary gripped the orb at the top of her walking stick. It had been painted to look like the globe of the Earth.
Platt and Randall looked at each other. “Two weeks past?” Platt said, his voice uncertain.
“About that,” Randall agreed.
“And what were you doing at Trent’s factory?” Lady Mary asked.
Mrs. Trent sat forward. “They’re family. Why wouldn’t my brother visit my husband?”
“Of course.” Lady Mary rose. “And we’ve taken too much of your time.”
Marie stood also. Discreetly, she tugged at the top of her bodice. She didn’t think it was revealing, but Mr. Randall’s gaze was too often upon it. Perhaps she should wear a fichu with this gown.
“If you think of any reason why your husband wanted to contact me, please let me know.” Lady Mary waited for Mrs. Trent’s nod before giving her farewells.
The same footman who led them to the sitting room opened the door for their exit.
Lady Mary tugged at the brim of her bonnet. “It was most kind of your employers to open up their home to Mrs. Trent after this tragedy. I’m sure she finds solace staying with family.”
He shook his head. “Oh, no. Mrs. Trent has been staying with us for some months. Everyone is just happy she wasn’t at her house when Mr. Trent was attacked. Who knows what could have happened to her, as well?”
“Quite so,” Lady Mary slowly said. She nodded to the footman, then descended to the pavement.
Ernest held open the carriage door. “Where to, ma’am?”
Lady Mary blew out a breath. “I should go to my club. I’ve been neglecting my duties too long. What I want to do is find this Mr. Hicks.” She stared into the distance, tapping her toe.
Marie dug into her reticule and pulled out the small cloth sack she always carried with her. She loosed the drawstring and pulled out her deck of cards. “That decision is easily made. We’ll both draw cards, high card wins. Do you want to stand for the club or Hicks?”
“I’ll always stand for my club,” Lady Mary said archly. She drew a queen.
Marie pulled a three from the deck.
“The club it is, Ernest,” she said as her driver opened the carriage door. “I do have a stack of paperwork to deal with there. Perhaps I can accomplish something today.”
Marie followed. “Well, we got a name, and we can track this Mr. Hicks down tomorrow. Do you think he did it?”
“The first suspect we discover? Most likely not. That would be too easy.” Lady Mary climbed into the carriage. “But it’s a start.”
Marie settled across from her. The fine cotton of her new gown was soft against her legs, the maroon crushed velvet seats of the carriage supportive of her back.
She took back the card Lady Mary had drawn and rolled it between her fingers.
Only a couple of months ago she’d thought she’d never see anything beyond her small village in the countryside.
Would live and die scrubbing the floors (and more unmentionable things) of her betters.
The carriage started forward, jostling her back against the seat. London rolled past outside the window.
Marie still cleaned, and there was nothing wrong with that work except for an aching back and reddened hands.
But this, traveling about with Lady Mary in a gown that cost more than her last year’s wages, being able to ask questions and have her opinion valued, this was something new. Something hopeful.
It might not last. Her diction lessons might be nothing but a waste of time and effort.
She stopped rolling the card with a flourish and held the card up to her face. The queen of diamonds looked back at her.
But as Lady Mary said, it was a start.