Chapter 4 #3
She’d been reticent all evening, though polite.
Her soft jonquil gown, I suspected, had been chosen to blend in as much as possible, and her pale brown hair had been twisted into the simplest of styles.
She spoke only when spoken to, which wasn’t often.
She certainly wasn’t eager to put herself forward.
In fact, I had a feeling she’d been maneuvered as much into dining with us as I’d been maneuvered into including her.
If that was true, I was more baffled than ever as to Mr. Birnam’s motives for such behavior.
Matchmaking certainly hadn’t seemed his aim, for he’d orchestrated to have his son moved to the opposite end of the table, farther away from Miss Whitlock.
So why had he all but forced me into setting a place for her at the table?
Or was I overthinking the matter? After all, I knew quite well that sometimes there was no reason behind powerful men’s actions.
When the world was structured to cater to your every whim, thoughtless expectation became your normality, regardless of how it affected or inconvenienced others.
And if Mr. Birnam’s actions over dinner were any indication, he had become accustomed to having his way.
The remainder of dinner passed pleasantly enough, though Mr. Birnam did try once more to return the topic to the revision of the Factory Act.
When he was categorically ignored, he grumbled a bit to himself but otherwise accepted the rebuff.
As the guests finished the last course, I rose to my feet to withdraw to the mauve drawing room with the ladies, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars for a short time.
Before I’d even reached the door, Miss Whitlock appeared at my side.
She didn’t say anything at first. At least, not until we’d exited the dining room and crossed in front of the less grand—at least when compared to the south staircase—but still opulent north staircase.
Then she spoke in a soft voice I almost had to strain to hear. “My lady, might I have a private word?”
Strolling on Miss Whitlock’s opposite side, Alana’s gaze shifted to meet mine, telling me she’d also heard her. Interest gleamed in the jewellike lapis-lazuli depths of her eyes, and she nodded, letting me know she would temporarily assume my role as hostess.
“Of course,” I replied, redirecting my steps to the great hall while my sister urged the others to follow her.
The two-story great hall at the heart of Bevington Hall had been built in the late seventeenth century to resemble its medieval predecessors, albeit with Baroque flourishes.
Lavish Rococo plasterwork competed with busts and vases on brackets on the walls and a forty-foot-high coved ceiling.
Here and there, clusters of furniture drowned in the expansive space.
Truthfully, the great hall was my least favorite room in the manor, chiefly because much of the time it seemed utterly useless.
It was far too large, dim, and drafty to be utilized comfortably.
But also because it was trying to be too many things at once.
Medieval with its enormous roaring fireplaces, Baroque with its elaborate pillars and molding, and Regency with its blush wall color. It was overdone.
Something my father-in-law, for once, could not be blamed for, as he’d not touched it since inheriting the estate.
I suspected that, like everyone else who stepped foot inside, he was flabbergasted as to what to do with it.
And so the great hall sat, largely ignored, except when passing from one end of the house to the other.
I paused next to a wall sconce and the bust of some stern historical figure, waiting for Miss Whitlock to speak.
She first peered wide-eyed around the vast chamber and then upward toward the balcony which crossed over the great hall along the western end, connecting the north and south staircases.
I couldn’t tell whether she was worried about someone eavesdropping or simply overawed by the room, like so many before her.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I prodded her, conscious of my need to return to the other guests.
Her gaze lurched back to mine and she nibbled her bottom lip briefly, seeming to gather her courage. “Is…is it true? Mr. St. Mawr…he said you and your husband conduct discreet…inquiries…” she swallowed “…for people in trouble.”
“Yes, it’s true,” I replied, stifling my surprise. I certainly hadn’t expected such a query from Mr. Birnam’s secretary. I could only guess what exactly my brother had told her about us.
She stared back at me with wide hazel eyes which sported a gold ring at the center, nibbling her lip again.
“Are you…in trouble?” I guessed.
“Maybe,” she whispered, glancing around anxiously.
“I’m not sure. But…” She broke off, inhaling a sharp breath.
“Will you meet me later? Somewhere more…” her eyes traveled up to the balcony “…private.” Her gaze abruptly returned to mine.
“I know you must return to the drawing room. But I…” She inhaled again, and this time her breathing was ragged. “Will you meet me?”
I wasn’t sure what had so unsettled Miss Whitlock, but one thing was clear. She was afraid. But of what? Of whom?
It was also clear she was not going to reveal anything more. At least, not here, not now. So while I felt a stirring of unease in the pit of my stomach, I knew there was only one answer I could give her.
“Yes.”
She nodded judderingly, visibly relieved by my agreement. “Where?”
I paused to consider. “Do you know the morning room?”
“Where breakfast is served?”
I wasn’t sure if she would know this, given her recent illness.
Trays had been taken to her in her bedchamber until earlier today.
“Yes. There are two smaller chambers beyond it. I’ll meet you in the one on the right.
” It served as a small office and storage space.
“At midnight?” That should be late enough that most of the guests would have retired after a long day of travel.
She reached out to grasp my hand rather impulsively, squeezing it. “Thank you.”
I was struck by the fervency of her words, barely managing a short nod before she released me.
Backing away, she pressed two of her fingers to her temple. “Will you tell everyone I have a headache. I can’t…” She broke off, trying vainly again in a shaky voice. “I’m not…”
“I will,” I assured her.
She nodded and then turned and fled toward the door through which we’d entered, only to reverse course, moving instead in the direction of the south staircase with a taut grimace.
Presumably, she didn’t wish to meet anyone as she made her escape.
I watched as she disappeared through the open passage, listening to the light patter of her footsteps until she passed beyond hearing.
I wished there was something I could do to ease her palpable distress. But then, I supposed I already had by agreeing to meet her later. I just hoped the hours ’til then would not prove too fraught for her.
It was a hope that would turn out to be tragically forlorn.