Chapter 16 #2
But I would regret the summer in the country, I knew.
I would miss the fresh, jeweled berries and the sprightly games of croquet, the long sunny afternoons on the lawn stretching from luncheon to tea, the turns on the lake in the ancient rowboat Father kept, the thin muslin gowns that seemed almost indecent after the thick winter garments we had worn in town.
Well, I could at least walk in the Park and instruct Cook to purchase berries, I supposed.
There was no substitute for the long walks over the Downs, but I made a mental note to order some lighter things from the dressmakers and returned to my ruminations.
Father—and his curious visit. Now that I thought on it, it did not much surprise me that he suggested I take a lover, however discreet he had been.
I must have been a sad disappointment to him with my quiet, conventional ways.
I had sometimes caught him looking at me with a pensive, almost wistful air, as if he were waiting hopefully for me to do something dashing and romantic and decidedly Marchian.
With a legacy of seven centuries of elopements, abandonments, disinheritings, and the occasional execution to spice things up, nothing I did would shock him greatly.
And perhaps he and Portia were correct. Perhaps the attention of a man who appreciated me would prove a balm… .
One of the maids—Sally, I think it was—came in then with morning tea, and I put aside Father’s visit to ponder the more serious events that had followed.
Val’s appearance, gore-stained and unprepossessing, had not been a happy development.
I had thought he had settled down rather nicely into life at Grey House.
Granted, we saw almost nothing of each other, but that suited us both quite well and he had seemed more contented in my house than in Father’s.
But he had become almost mysterious of late in his comings and goings.
The existence of Her Majesty’s raven in my Blue Room was solid proof of that.
I should have handed him over to Father before Val returned from the opera, I realized ruefully.
Father would have been furious with him initially; I always suspected he harbored some tender feelings for the queen, their having played together as children being one of his fondest memories.
But his irritation would have subsided—eventually.
He would have seen to it that the thing was taken back to the Tower and restored to its proper place.
And he would have taken up Val’s part with the queen, I had no doubt of that.
He might rail against the little idiot in private, but no one, not even the queen, would be permitted to speak against one of his own.
He might even think of it as one of those high-spirited little japes he was always wishing on us.
And surely Val would forgive me for breaking his confidence if everything turned out for the best.
Unfortunately, I had not had the presence of mind to think of it the night before. I had been too preoccupied with Father and Brisbane. And Magda. I sipped at my cooling tea, thinking again of the words she had hissed at him in the darkness.
I know who Mariah Young was…and I know how she died.
Ominous words, chilling even. I had no idea who Mariah Young was, but I did not much think I would like to find out. Was Magda trying to imply that Brisbane knew something about the death of this woman? Or worse, had had something to do with it himself?
I put down my tea and pulled the coverlet to my chin.
Had I entrusted myself, foolishly, to a person capable of the very crime we were trying to investigate?
Was he capable of violence? Or had Mariah Young died as the result of some tragic accident, perhaps at Brisbane’s hands?
What did I really know of Brisbane? And, more to the point, what did Magda know?
I was still puzzling over these questions when Morag bustled in with the news that my bath was ready. I bathed and dressed that morning in a state of distraction, still mulling questions for which I had no answers.
And because I was thinking of Brisbane when I took my seat at the breakfast table, it seemed like some sort of sorcery to find a letter from him waiting on the salver next to my plate.
I put out a finger to poke the envelope, not entirely certain it was real. It was, although the handwriting was thinner, less confident than I had seen it. Whatever ailed him, he was clearly in a decline. I opened it, scanning it quickly as Aquinas presented the toast.
My lady,
My friend finds himself unexpectedly available and places himself at our disposal this morning. He will be in Chapel Street at eleven o’clock. I hope that this does not inconvenience you.
Unlike the body of the note, the signature was firm and thick, as though Brisbane had borne down hard with the pen, making an impression in the paper.
I ran my finger over it, tracing the loops of his handwriting.
If Brisbane’s condition was worsening, I did not think I much wanted to call upon him.
But only he knew the limits of his strength.
I doubted he would have allowed his friend to visit if it was a very great hardship to him.
In a matter of minutes I had penned a quick response and dispatched Desmond to Chapel Street. I sat back, picking at my cold eggs and waving off Aquinas when he offered to fetch me hot ones.
For some reason I could not identify, my appetite had entirely fled.