Chapter 35
The Price for Buying Time
… she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct would ill bear examination …
Jane Austen, Persuasion
It was late. Bath’s streets were full of pleasure seekers. As impatient as she felt, Rosalind agreed with Adam that it would be easier for them to navigate the town on foot than to wait for a carriage and be caught in the snarled traffic.
The long day and near-sleepless night dragged hard against Rosalind’s limbs, but she made herself keep moving. They had very little time as it was, and she was not at all certain Devon would agree to the outrageous favor she intended to ask.
They might have left at least a little sooner, but Rosalind wanted to make sure her letter to Alice was included with the final post. It contained a full accounting of all that had happened to them thus far, and all that they knew regarding the events swirling around the Kinsdale family, and even some of what was confidently suspected.
In the end, she had sealed three full sheets covered front and back into the packet, and had to remind herself several times that she and Alice were both well past the days when they would have had to count their pennies before deciding whether they could stand the expense of receiving such a voluminous letter.
On the way to the Royal Circus, Adam and Rosalind agreed that Rosalind would present herself at the front door, while Adam went around to the side.
“That way you can talk with the scullery maid,” Rosalind said. “I asked her to hold the ashes from when she cleaned out the grate in the sisters’ sitting room. Someone had been burning papers.”
“Excellent,” said Adam. “And besides that, I want to talk with Thrush again. I need to get the names of any of the others who may have come back looking for their pay. There may be fresh details to be had from them.”
Once they reached the Royal Circus, Adam and Rosalind paused and faced each other.
They were in public, so a kiss between them was out of the question.
Rosalind extended her hand, and Adam bowed over it, his gaze meeting hers.
Such a moment, where she could look into his eyes, would always cause her heart to swell, no matter what else might be happening.
But this particular moment was short lived. She must turn away, and she must walk up the broad, shallow steps to the Kinsdales’ door, and try to decide what on earth she would say to Devon.
In the end, it was Devon who spoke first.
“I thought you might come back,” he said as she was shown into the bookroom.
Like the rest of the house, this room was a study in extravagance—all vibrant color and thick carpets.
However, the shelves that another man might have filled with books were here filled with prints, sketches, and engravings.
All of them showed horses. Rosalind assumed these were representatives of the Kinsdale bloodline.
So many portraits of horses, but none of his wife, or his daughters.
Devon was sitting at a great mahogany desk and he looked thoroughly harried.
His cravat had been loosened and his hair rumpled like he had been running his hands through it.
The piles of papers stacked all around him made Rosalind think of a boy building a fortress.
A tray with the remains of what had probably been his supper had been shoved to one side to make more room for no less than three broad ledgers, all of which Devon had opened in front of him.
“You’ve heard about Mrs. Lynn, of course?” He got up and pulled one of the room’s two armchairs around to the side of the desk, and then dropped back into his own chair. “Please, sit down.”
“Yes, I have heard.” Rosalind took the chair. She also gestured at the account books. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough,” muttered Devon. “But the real problem is what’s not here.” Rosalind raised her brows and Devon sighed. “I’ve just talked with one Mr. Florian Oswald. He was Sir Anthony’s solicitor, and he says Sir Anthony died without a will.”
Rosalind felt the blood drain from her cheeks.
Devon ran his hand through his hair. “That of course means most of the land will go to the nearest male relative along with the title, or the lot of it will go back to the Crown. And we don’t know who that relative might be.”
Rosalind’s heart banged once against her ribs, hard.
“There’s some cousins in Ireland,” Devon went on.
“But they’d have to be traced and that might take years.
And what isn’t entailed is so encumbered, it’s going to take at least as long to sort it all out.
Oswald seems like a professional man, but he’s been working to keep Sir Anthony’s head above water for years now, and he freely admits it’s been heavy going.
” Devon glowered at the books in front of him.
“Clara and her sisters will be lucky to see anything at all.”
As Rosalind listened to this assessment, she felt several pieces of the puzzle that was the Kinsdales and all their many tragedies slip together. The picture it made was not one she wanted to see.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” she said softly.
“I hate this feeling that all my help is just making matters worse,” said Devon. “Even if I’m just the messenger.”
“I do sympathize.”
His expression turned assessing. “Yes, I imagine you do.”
Movement caught her eye through the study’s open door. Clara stood on the threshold, twisting her hands together.
Devon was on his feet at once, crossing to her, taking her hand, drawing her into the study, and closing the door behind them.
“Miss Thorne, you must forgive me,” said Clara. “I’ve only just heard that you arrived.”
“I’m the one who should be asking your forgiveness,” Rosalind said as Devon ushered his fiancée to the room’s remaining chair. “It is hardly polite visiting hours.”
“Are you all right, Clara?” Devon asked her. “You look exhausted.”
“I am, a little,” Clara confessed. “I just wanted … I cannot thank you enough, Miss Thorne for sending us Mrs. Kendricks. She has taken the whole house in hand.”
Rosalind allowed herself a smile. “I knew that she would. She kept house for me and my family for many years.”
Clara smiled in answer, but her expression was only polite. “I imagine Casselmaine has told you our latest discovery? About the estate?”
“Yes,” said Rosalind. “And I am sorry to hear it.”
“And I suppose you have also heard about Mrs. Lynn … and Elizabeth?”
“That was why I came, in fact,” Rosalind told them both.
“How is Elizabeth?” Devon asked Clara.
“Terribly agitated. I’m afraid we may need to send for someone, but I don’t know who.” Clara twisted her hands again. “Father always chose his medical men more for fashion than efficacy.”
Which came as no surprise to Rosalind. “May I suggest Mr. Howland in the Market Lane?” she said. “He comes highly recommended.”
“Thank you. In truth I don’t know what we would have done without you these past days.” Clara blinked back her tears. Devon seized her hand at once, and pressed it gently.
“I’m all right,” she told him, and tried to smile again. She almost managed it.
“I have assured Clara that very little will be required of Elizabeth tomorrow at the inquest,” Devon said to Rosalind, very clearly hoping she would confirm this.
Rosalind nodded. “Yes. She should only be asked to swear that the statement is hers, and that it is true.” The trouble lies in the fact that we know it is not true.
“I am sorry for Elizabeth,” said Clara. “She truly did believe that Mrs. Lynn was her friend. Elizabeth was very close to our mother, you see. They shared that great love of horses. In fact, it could be a chore to get them to talk about anything except horses. So, when it all fell apart, Elizabeth lost her best friend, and then watched her life’s passion sold away for a pittance.
It would be enough to break the strongest of hearts. ”
“She must be very angry,” ventured Rosalind. “To find herself so betrayed.”
“Yes. She’s trying to hide it, but she is furious.”
“Clara,” said Rosalind. “I must ask you something.”
Clara, as a matter of reflex, glanced at Devon. “What is it?”
“Is Elizabeth angry enough that she might seek revenge against Mrs. Lynn?”
“What … what do you mean?”
Rosalind said nothing. Clara pressed a hand against her throat.
“Miss Thorne, you cannot mean you think Elizabeth lied in her statement to the coroner?”
Devon’s frown was a warning. It took all Rosalind’s strength to ignore it, and him. “I do not know,” she said. “There are questions raised within her statement about other matters. It makes me afraid.”
“What questions?” demanded Clara. “What possible questions could there be? Elizabeth heard Mrs. Lynn and Father arguing. She saw the woman in father’s room …”
“Miss Thorne—” began Devon.
“Elizabeth says that your father had been considering separating from Mrs. Lynn,” said Rosalind.
Clara drew back. “She said that?”
Rosalind nodded. “The statement was very plain.”
“You’ve read it?” asked Devon, and Rosalind felt the suspicion in the question like a blow.
“Mr. Harkness has,” Rosalind told them. “He is assisting the coroner and Bow Street with the inquiry into both deaths.” This was stretching the truth, but not so much as to distort it beyond recognition.
That distinction, however, did nothing to ease Rosalind’s realization that she had begun to mislead both Devon and Clara, and that she was not going to stop.
They were looking at each other now. Clara sat mute, but her gaze betrayed her silent pleading for some way that this conversation was not leading to yet more heartbreak.
Devon was equally bewildered, and quickly becoming angry.
Except, of course, he could not let himself be angry—not at Clara, not at her sisters, not at the circumstances—because that anger would accomplish nothing at all.
Rosalind watched him squash his own feelings, and her heart went out to them both.
“It may be that she mis-remembered,” said Devon, gently. “We sometimes assign to memory things we wish to be true.”