Chapter 30
THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER
Think you there was or might be such a man As this I dreamt of?
—Antony and Cleopatra
Twelfth Night marked the beginning of the end of that fateful house party.
My brothers and sisters collected their children and returned to their homes, most of them on speaking terms for once.
Plum had written to say he had been invited to stay in Florence for Alessandro’s betrothal celebrations and would be leaving for Ireland as soon as the nuptials were concluded in the summer.
Portia looked closely at me when she related the news, but I merely smiled and went on feeding Grim his sugared plums. Much to Father’s delight, Lysander and Violante had decided to remain in England for the birth of their child, and Hortense—by now fast friends with Violante—had agreed to play companion to her.
And in a small piece in the Times I learned that Scotland Yard was very pleased to report the apprehension of a jewel thief of some notoriety.
Brisbane’s name was not mentioned, nor was the Tear of Jaipur, though I knew they meant Charlotte King.
But as closely as I read the columns, there was no word of letters patent or the viscountcy of Wargrave.
There was, however, the smallest mention of an estate in Yorkshire changing hands into the possession of Nicholas Brisbane.
It was no great estate, and no lofty title, but I was happy for him.
As for me, I went to London with Portia and Jane, accompanied by Florence and Grim, and of course Morag, grumbling as usual about the extra work.
I had much shopping to do to outfit the Rookery, and I felt the need for the diversions of city life and the comforts of steam heat.
Portia’s house, a vast, modern place, was impossibly warm even in the dreariest months.
We settled in companionably, and the dark days of January passed quickly away.
One wet afternoon late in January, Jane and I lolled by the fire, talking desultorily of things we might do once the weather improved.
The butler entered with the tea things, and Portia followed him, flipping through the post. She had already opened one letter, and I caught the quickest glimpse of a bold black scrawl before she shoved it to the bottom of the stack.
“Jane, dearest, won’t you pour? And Julia, you can hand round the cakes. Mind you take some of that sponge. Cook is quite proud of it.”
Jane poured as Portia handed out the letters. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw her slip the opened one behind the cushion of her chair as she sorted through the rest. She lit on one from Aunt Hermia, and exclaimed, reading it out to us as we sipped our tea and nibbled at sandwiches.
“Aunt Hermia says Hortense is well, and Violante is feeling quite strong now. She has put Father on a diet,” she said with a smothered laugh.
“Apparently he was a bit bilious, and she has decided he must not eat butter, gravy, or pastry. Poor Father!” We exchanged smiles.
Father was the most powerful man of our acquaintance, but he was also the most susceptible to being fussed over.
They might have begun rockily, but Violante was very likely in a fair way to becoming his favourite daughter-in-law.
Portia’s expression sobered. “Father has received a letter from India. Oh, dear.”
I took a bite of the slice of sponge. “What is it, dearest?”
Portia shook her head sadly. “It is Sir Cedric. He suffered a fatal attack on the voyage to India. He is dead.”
The cake tasted dusty suddenly, and I put down the plate.
“How awful,” Jane murmured. She refilled my cup, sweetening it heavily. “Drink this, Julia. You have gone quite pale.”
I obeyed and felt marginally better. “What sort of attack?”
Portia shook her head. “She does not say. One imagines it must have been his heart. He was a rather florid sort of man.”
“Perhaps an apoplexy,” Jane suggested. She shook her head. “Poor Lucy Phipps.”
I said nothing. I was thinking of Emma. Emma and her blind devotion to her sister, her jealous love. I thought of the slippery precipice of murder, and how much easier it must be to do the act again after you have raised your hand to it once.
“Not Lucy Phipps anymore,” Portia corrected. “Aunt Hermia says that Sir Cedric died after they were wed. She is Lady Eastley now. She has inherited his entire fortune.”
“How tragic,” Jane went on. “To be so newly married, and to lose one’s husband. I cannot imagine that the money is any great comfort to her. She must be utterly shattered.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said faintly. “I think the money may be a very great comfort. She was always quite poor, you know.”
“And now she and Emma will never want for a thing so long as she lives,” Portia finished.
As we sipped our tea in silence, I was conscious of a deep unease, a vague dissatisfaction that something had gone quite gravely wrong and could never be mended.
* * *
When Jane had retired and Portia had left to bathe the repulsive Puggy, I poured myself another cup of tea and went to the chair where Portia had been sitting.
The letter was still there, a little the worse for having been sat on.
Doubtless she expected to retrieve it later.
I sipped at my tea, holding the letter and debating with myself. It was a very short argument.
I slipped the letter from its envelope and read it quickly. There was no salutation, no endearment, and I felt a great deal more at ease when I read the brisk tone of the letter itself. I had not forgotten Portia’s smug air when she informed me she had business with Brisbane.
By all means, come in April. The worst of the weather will be past, and I am told the spring is rather lovely here.
I shall be vastly interested to see what you can do with the place.
Do not think I am being modest when I say it is a ruin.
It lacks every modern convenience, and I hope you are prepared for every possible discomfort.
I can offer you only cold rooms, bad food, and lumpy beds.
As for your sister, I will not mention her again, except to say this: do not entertain the idea of bringing her. The estate is not fit for company. And since I flatter myself that I know you a little better than you might believe, I will repeat, DO NOT brING YOUR SISTER TO YORKSHIRE.
The rest of the letter was a tangle of information about trains and schedules and domestic arrangements.
I only skimmed it. I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope and tucked the envelope behind the cushion.
Portia would know soon enough I had read it, but there was no purpose to starting that quarrel just yet.
Instead, I busied myself making a list of everything I would need to pack for my trip to Yorkshire.
I was keenly interested in seeing this ruin of an estate, and if Portia meant to put his household in order for him, she might well be glad of an extra pair of hands.
Besides, April was three long, dreary, grey months away.
After a winter in the city, I would be gasping for country air, and Yorkshire was reputed to be tremendously scenic.
I had never been, but I had heard the moors were staggeringly lovely.
Of course, I never expected Brisbane and I would find a body there. But that is a tale for another time.
* * * * *