Chapter 11 #3
Although her lips wouldn’t curve—not in this room—she smiled inside. “Thank you.” Looking into the drawer, she pointed to a small box. “That’s the brooch. And the choker is in that blue velvet bag. The ring . . . is that small box there.”
Montague took the three items out, checked them, then handed them to her.
Leaving him to return the drawer to its place, Violet turned—and saw Penelope and Griselda peering into the wardrobe. Penelope was examining the gowns, while Griselda had bent to study Lady Halstead’s boots and shoes. Violet frowned. “What are you looking for?”
Both glanced her way, then took one last look before stepping back.
Shutting the wardrobe door, Penelope explained, “Trying to get some idea of her character—with women, clothes and shoes often say a lot.” She waved at the wardrobe.
“From her gowns, she seems to have been a soft, flowy, gentle lady.”
Violet nodded. “She was. But she wasn’t weak. She didn’t like her children, but she couldn’t change them, so she put up with them.”
“That fits with her footwear,” Griselda said. “Good quality and fashionable, but also functional. She liked fashion, but underneath, she appears to have been a sensible, practical sort.”
Violet felt her features soften. “Yes—that was her.”
They’d all gathered by the door. After one last look around, Violet led the way out and down the stairs.
In the front hall, she paused, looking at the open door to the drawing room, hearing the muted cacophony of the voices within; there were still a considerable number of mourners lingering over the refreshments.
Dragging in a breath, she turned to face the others. She glanced at Penelope, then looked at Montague. “I really don’t wish to go in there and be sociable.”
“There’s no reason you should,” Penelope stated. “You’ve done all and more than your association with her ladyship demanded.”
Montague touched her arm—just a fleeting touch, but she felt his support. “There’s no need for you to stay longer.”
Violet glanced down at the three items in her hands.
“Let me give Cook her ring and say good-bye, and then I would like to leave.” And never come back.
She didn’t say the words, yet they resonated inside her.
This was the end of one phase of her life; she could feel that in her bones.
It was time to quit this house and move forward, into a future that was as yet nebulous, but she wasn’t without friends, wasn’t—thanks to Lady Halstead’s generosity—without reserves.
The others trailed her to the kitchen. Farewelling Cook proved to be a teary undertaking, but, eventually, both she and Cook dried their eyes, and after exchanging their directions—Penelope helpfully supplied the address of her house, and Cook scribbled her sister’s address in Bermondsley on a piece of paper—they parted.
Barnaby and Stokes were waiting in the front hall. “There you are,” Barnaby said.
Violet felt Barnaby’s keen blue gaze travel over her face; she had no idea what he saw there, but his voice had softened when he said, “Ready to go?”
She nodded.
Stokes, with Griselda on his arm, led the way out. Barnaby and Penelope followed. Montague gave Violet his arm and she took it, grateful, as they stepped out of the door and into a crisp breeze carrying the scent of dying leaves, for his support.
For his strength, and his willingness to lend it to her.
He steadied her down the steps and onto the short path.
Barnaby held the gate. As she passed through, Violet was aware that the others were chatting softly about something—their observations, perhaps—but they made no demands of her and didn’t look her way.
As the gate swung shut, the other two couples started off down the street to where their carriages waited further along the curb. On Montague’s arm, Violet followed.
Then she paused and glanced back. Back at the house she’d spent the last eight years living in, being reasonably content and settled in, caring for and working with two women she would never see again.
Montague had halted beside her, but he watched her, her face, not the house.
As she was about to turn and meet his eyes, Violet saw movement behind the sitting room window.
Mortimer was staring out—whether at her, the group, or unseeingly at the street she couldn’t say. Even at this distance, his expression appeared pinched and peevish. Then he turned and walked away, deeper into the room.
Meeting Montague’s eyes, Violet grimaced. “The family are still at it, still arguing, it seems.”
Retaking her arm, Montague snorted. “With that family, they always will be.”
There was no help for it, he would have to leave Miss Matcham for now. Aside from all else, he didn’t know where she was staying, and if anyone heard him asking after her now . . . he couldn’t afford that.
Best to lie low, at least for a little while.
Besides, he had other issues to deal with—and what the devil had been going on with the old lady’s accounts?
Regardless, Wallace’s suggestion that it was Tilly who had taken the money and subsequently been killed by her lover-accomplice, whom she’d previously assisted in murdering the old girl herself, had been beyond inspired. A gift from the gods, from his point of view.
And the police seemed to pose little real threat; they were scurrying around trying to find the thief, assuming whoever it was was also the murderer. Who knew? Their efforts might even provide a suitable scapegoat.
And thank heaven that man Montague had refused to deal with the old lady’s affairs. Now he’d checked the man’s credentials and had learned of his reputation, he realized how close a call he’d had.
But Montague had declined, and the old lady’s papers were now in his firm’s vault, no doubt pushed to the back wall.
They could gather dust there until he located a suitable man-of-business, one he could influence or bribe, and inveigled the rest of the family to accept his choice.
Which might well entail ensuring they never learned that the man was his choice, but he’d grown adept at such manipulations.
As his carriage rattled through the night, taking him home from his club, he reviewed the facts and measured them against his feelings. His compulsion to ensure, beyond all possible doubt, that he was safe. That nothing could possibly threaten his future.
No matter how he weighted the facts, regardless of that compulsion, this wasn’t the time to act.
No, indeed. Things were going well—or, at least, better than he’d expected. Better than he’d had any reason to hope.
Now wasn’t the time to senselessly rush ahead, put a foot wrong, and stumble.
He didn’t—couldn’t—question his certainty that permanently silencing Miss Violet Matcham was necessary for his long-term peace of mind, but he didn’t have to act now.
If she had recognized the import of what he was certain she knew, she would have shared the information with the police, but she hadn’t, yet, and to this point no one suspected him.
Keeping it that way was imperative.
So he would wait, and bide his time. And, eventually, an opportunity would arise and he would be able to silence Miss Matcham and finally win free of all possible threat to his future.
“Who knows?” Wreathed in shifting shadows, he arched a brow. “There may even be some way to twist the tale so that the maid’s nonexistent lover-accomplice takes the blame.”
Two mornings later, Violet entered the sunny breakfast parlor in the Adairs’ Albemarle Street house to find Penelope already at the table.
Violet mock-frowned as she slipped into a chair alongside her new mistress—who didn’t behave like any mistress ever known. “Are you always this early?”
Crunching on a piece of toast slathered with jam, Penelope nodded. She swallowed. “Usually. I was always an early bird, even as a child.” She grinned. “Disgusting, isn’t it?”
“I’ll reserve my answer.” Picking up the teapot, Violet poured herself a cup.
“I can recommend the jam.” Penelope waved her toast. “Cook opened a fresh jar of her gooseberry preserve, I suspect in your honor, so you should try some so you can tell her how delightful it is. Which it is. If you like gooseberries.”
Even though she’d spent only one day in the house, Violet had already grown accustomed to Penelope’s sometimes disjointed and often unexpected utterances—enough, at least, not to be thrown. “I’ll be sure to stop by the kitchen later.”
For several minutes, they sipped and crunched in harmony, then Penelope pushed aside her empty plate.
“I was wondering if there’s anything specific you’d like to do today.
Oliver has a small case of the sniffles, so Hettie has warned me off taking him out.
” Meeting Violet’s eyes, her own impossibly innocent behind the distracting lenses of her spectacles, Penelope arched her brows.
“So, is there anywhere you’d like to visit?
Anything by way of entertainment you’d like to do? ”
Violet looked into Penelope’s chocolate-brown eyes and decided it was no wonder that she’d so taken to the other woman. She knew precisely why Penelope had made the offer; for Violet, yesterday had been both difficult and tiring.
Tilly’s brother had called, sent around by Montague; Fred Westcott proved to have been Tilly’s twin, and he’d been so much like her that Violet had had to expend considerable effort fighting to hold back her tears.
Tears that would have made poor Fred even more bewildered and uncomfortable; he’d been having such a hard time believing his twin sister was dead.
He lived in Kent and had driven into town in a small wagon; he’d followed Violet’s directions to Montague’s office, and had been sent on to Albemarle Street to pick up Tilly’s things en route to the morgue, where he’d planned to take possession of Tilly’s body and drive it back in the wagon for burial in the little village graveyard beside their parents.
So Tilly was gone, and after Fred’s departure, Violet had felt shattered.