Chapter Seven
Dues must be paid when one has only one living relative, especially when that one relative is a woman of significant age and health.
Dear Aunt Petunia.
His aunt’s long-suffering companion, Mrs. Turner, greeted Oliver in the hall. “Lady Whitely says she is dying, my lord. The doctor assures me she is not, but she is convinced. She insisted that you come here straight away.”
Oliver nodded and handed his hat and gloves to his aunt’s butler and followed Mrs. Turner down the hall.
“I’m relieved to hear that her health is not as dire as she has imagined.
I am so glad you are here to watch over her.
Although I know she can be trying at times,” he said in a good-natured tone.
She smiled. “It is an honor, sir. You know I have been her companion for near on twenty years. I am quite used to her ways.”
Mrs. Turner was a small woman, with light silver-streaked hair and intelligent hazel eyes. Oliver liked her very much, always had.
“In any case I would make it known to you that I am very grateful to you.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She blushed.
Oliver patted her hand as he left her in the hall and entered his aunt’s dimly lit parlor to be immediately set upon by three small yapping fur balls who took to jumping up on his legs. He sighed with the knowledge that his boots would be all but ruined by the dogs’ small claws.
“Ah, Bellamy,” his aunt called from her chair by the fire. “You have finally come to me. Must I be on death’s door for you to visit?”
He bowed and she waved him farther into the room. “I was here but the day before yesterday, Aunt,” he replied, placing a kiss on her cheek.
Looking a little confused, his aunt Petunia squinted up at him over the rim of her spectacles.
“Were you? Surely I would have remembered that,” she said.
Then, “Oh, do sit down, Bellamy, you are far too tall. Give me a crick in my neck looking up at you all the time. Anyway, it does not signify, for I am dying.”
“Really, Aunt? Dying?” Oliver took his usual seat.
“Yes! The dear doctor said so.”
Oliver raised a brow. “Mrs. Turner said the doctor concluded you were not dying.”
“What would that old charlatan know? He’s not me,” she said in a superior tone, chin up in the air.
Oliver stifled a chuckle. “Aunt…”
His aunt began fussing with her shawl. “Bellamy, there are things that must be said before I curl up my toes.”
Oliver took one of the small pug dogs, who kept leaping up at him, onto his lap. “I am at your service,” he replied.
“Good. Now, is it true you’re marrying the Black Raven woman?”
“No!” Oliver’s eyes widened. His voice rose to an alarming and ungentlemanly-like pitch. The poor dog on his lap whimpered, and Oliver realized his fingers had squeezed the poor creature. “Where did you hear that?”
Aunt Petunia looked disappointed. “The doctor mentioned you were the talk of the ton. I had hoped there was a smidgen of truth to it.”
“Old charlatan,” he muttered, letting the dog lick his hand in forgiveness of his rough treatment of a moment ago.
“Bellamy!” Aunt Petunia reprimanded, albeit with a smirk.
“The Countess of Blackhurst and I…” How to explain something he was yet to quite understand himself.
His aunt sat forward. “Yes? You do know my dying wish is to see you married, don’t you?”
He watched her as she looked at him with pleading eyes. She reminded him of one of her dogs whenever there was a treat on offer. Oh, his aunt was at her mischievous best today. “Are you not worried about her reputation?”
She flapped her hands around in a dismissive gesture. “Reputation? Oh, you mean about her husband? Henry said he was a shockingly rude fellow with no sense of propriety.”
“Did he indeed? Some say she killed him or had him killed. What do you say to that?” Oliver watched as his aunt processed all this information with little more than a raise of her graying eyebrow.
“Do they? Well, he probably deserved it, like my Harold.”
“Harold?”
“My first husband. He was like a petulant child. Always wanted everything his way. Never happy to wait. Always had to butt in where he shouldn’t. He was killed by a wine cork, you know.”
Oliver sat back in disbelief. “No, I didn’t know.”
“They wanted to blame the poor footman, but I was there as and so were several others. Harold had been an impatient man. He grabbed the champagne bottle off the dear boy and popped that cork right into his own temple. He was gone from this Earthly plane before he even hit the Persian rug.” She looked off into the distance for a moment before redirecting her eyes to him.
Shocked, Oliver shook his head. He had never known any of this. He had just assumed that Uncle George had been her only husband. “So, then you married Uncle George?”
“George? Heaven’s no.”
“No?”
“After Harold there was Charles. He had an unfortunate reaction to something and hiccupped himself to the other side.”
Oliver shut his mouth and wondered how such a thing was even possible. “How… awful,” he replied, horrified. And yet he had to swallow a bubble of laughter which threatened to escape.
“Oh, it went on for months,” she went on. “We were all quite relieved in the end, including Charles, I suspect.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask if there are any others.”
“I think seeing three husbands to the grave is more than enough for any poor woman, don’t you?”
“I agree. So, you think Lady Blackhurst did kill her husband then?”
“If she was not found guilty then she must be… not guilty.”
Well, he supposed that made sense but…
She frowned at him. “So, are you going to marry the girl or not? Henry fancied her, you know. Were he still alive you might have had a fight on your hands. He would talk of no one else. Her dark hair, her lovely eyes, her complexion. It was quite nauseating, I have to say.”
Now it was his turn to frown. “I had no idea he and Lisbeth had met.”
“Is that her name? That is pretty.” His aunt smiled, happiness evident on her wrinkled face.
A face that was a constant in his life, the only constant he had left. He would not even entertain the thought of her not being part of his life. “What did he say?” Oliver asked.
“About what, dear?”
“About the Countess of Blackhurst?”
“Who?”
“The lady I am not marrying? The Black Raven?”
She stared at him for a moment, a look of pleasure sweeping over her face. “Are you getting married?”
He shut his eyes briefly and took a breath. “No.” Her face fell in disappointment, which made him feel like pond scum.
“Bellamy, you are confusing me on purpose. Do not be cruel. I am dying, you know.”
“You are not…”
She grabbed at his hand, which made the dog jump from his lap. “I want you to settle a small cottage on Mrs. Turner when I go. Somewhere near her daughter would be nice. I can give her a small allowance.”
“I will do my best, but, Aunt, you are not dying.”
“I am and I will see our dear Henry again, and George, and no doubt Charles and Harold, too. Won’t that be a jolly party? I do hope that Henry will be in a convivial mood. He was so peculiar before he passed.” She looked over at the fire and seemed to be mesmerized by the goings on in the grate.
“In what way, Aunt?” He reached out, touched her arm. “Aunt?”
She looked over at him and appeared to be surprised to see him. “Eh? Oh, Bellamy. Do I have to be ready to go to my reward before you visit me?” She looked over at the window. “Strangest weather we are having lately. It is almost as if the sun had decided to go on a holiday.”
He smiled. He should have known this conversation was doomed to run amok sooner or later. Oh, but he wanted to know more about Henry and his peculiar mood.
Aunt Petunia’s chin was already dipping towards her chest, he noticed, indicating that she would be snoring within moments.
This was the first time she had been specific when talking about Henry.
Usually, she just reminisced about them as children.
The news about him knowing Lisbeth was intriguing.
If his aunt’s ramblings were true, how did they know each other?
Lisbeth had told him she had not known her husband’s business partners. He assumed this included his brother.
He looked around him, looked at his aunt, and wondered what he should do.
He had the urge to bang down the countess’s door and demand answers.
This would be impulsive and pure folly considering the source.
No, he must bide his time. Study her. Get under her defenses and into her confidence if he were to find out about Henry and her part in the speculation.
He gave his aunt a kiss on her forehead and left her to rest. In the hall Mrs. Turner met him and followed him to the door.
“She seemed well today, considering her diagnosis,” he remarked.
“Yes and no. She says the strangest things to me some days, but I cannot make out whether they are memory or imagination.”
“She said some strange comments to me today as well, about Henry.”
“I would not take too much stock in what she says, my lord.”
“No, well, I suppose you are right. I’ll take my leave now, Mrs. Turner, and bid you a good day.” As he walked away, despite what Mrs. Turner had said, he could not stop his thoughts from turning to his brother and the woman who would be on his arm tonight.
*
It was cold, again, but this time Oliver didn’t have the benefit of a flask of brandy to keep him warm, nor did he have the heated affections of the woman sitting opposite him.
Despite the warming bricks at their feet, the cold seemed to be seeping in from every crevice of the carriage.
He was sure that Rollands had something to do with his missing flask, no doubt perpetrated by Madame le No-Fun sitting opposite him.
Perhaps her icy demeanor was making the carriage seem so chilly.